Everyone Ends Up Here
by moreanonymousthanu
Summary: Destiel AU. Dean Winchester is isolated and friendless, until one day a strange man named Castiel shows up at the bar he frequents and sits down beside him. What starts as a quiet, companionable friendship turns into something far bigger...but can their love survive the horrors of the past, and the horrors of the present? Rated T for language. Please leave reviews! Thanks.
1. Happily Ever Afters

_Darling,_

_They all end the same, don't they? Love stories. They end just like ours has._

_It was beautiful while it lasted, though, wasn't it? The most beautiful of them all, at least the way I see it. Do you think it was beautiful, darling?_

_We should have known we would end up here. Everyone always ends up here. There's no such things as happy endings. No one lives Happily Ever After, because one day Ever After has to end._

_I suppose our Happily Ever After has ended, then? Yes._

_God, I wish it could've lasted longer._

_But all love stories are the same, really. Not just in where they end but in where they start, where they go, where they take us. Nothing is ever different in this strange world of hours. Just the same thing coming 'round again._

_A guy walks into a bar, right? Sees a pretty girl. Sits down, buys her a beer. Maybe gets her number, maybe takes her home, does it matter? The world rushes around them for a while, but they're stationary, caught up in the freefall of new love. They're dropping from the heavens and just trying to hold on to each other, while the world carries on around them._

_Then it settles. Not all at once, like hitting the ground. But gradually the falling levels out, and it's flying, they're flying now. Soaring. Happily Ever Afters crowd in on all sides and it's beautiful, you know, the flying bit. It's all so beautiful._

_They stick together and fly with the other birds, not understanding how temporary it all is, not seeing that they're just gliding to a stop, and eventually they'll hit the ground and their happy ending will be over._

_We all end up here. Everyone does._

_Dammit, Cas, and somehow we thought we were special._

_Say goodbye to our Happily Ever After, sweetheart._

_I'll miss you. Just know that none of this is your fault—there's nothing we could've done differently._

_We will always end up_

_Here._

_Love,_

_Dean_


	2. That Seat is Taken

**Author's Note: To those of you who are subscribed to this fanfiction, you are going to be getting emails saying that I've updated it when I'm really just fixing formatting. I'm sorry if you see this and get all excited thinking I've posted a new chapter, but you're going to be getting a lot of alerts about it because I went back through and found a lot of formatting errors. I am really sorry about this!**

4 Years Ago

A guy walked into the bar, carrying in a gust of cold air and catching a few nasty looks from those seated nearest to the window.

"Shut the door, will ya?" a man grouched. The newcomer nodded and closed the door softly behind him, making his way through the tables and taking a seat and the bar.

The waitress smiled as he leaned forward on the sticky counter, twirling some hair around her finger, "What can I get for ya?"

"The usual."

She smiled and grabbed a glass, humming as she filled it.

He downed it in record time, rolling his neck, letting his head fall into his hands.

"Hard day?"

"They're all hard days."

"Worse than usual, I mean?"

"Guess you could say that."

She nodded and filled it up again, and left to attend to some others.

The man sat there, hands tangled up in his hair, eyes closed. He took in the sounds—laughter, a shout, the low whistle of a man checking out some chick a couple tables over. The screech of the barstool next to his being pulled out.

His head snapped up, "That seat is _taken_," he said coolly.

The man sitting there frowned, "I'm sorry. I must have been mistaken. I assumed it was not taken given that it appears to be currently unoccupied," he tilted his head slightly, "Unless, of course, you are saying that merely because you do not wished to be burdened with my presence. Much like everyone else, it seems."

"It's not you. Just…I'm waiting for someone."

The man slid the barstool back, glancing away sheepishly, "Sorry."

"Naw, come on, man! Don't give me that look. I'm Dean, by the way."

The man lifted his eyes to Dean's, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, _Dean._ My name is Castiel."

Dean laughed, "Do you always talk like that?"

"I'm not sure what you are referring to."

"You talk like you're…I dunno. An alien, maybe."

"I'm fairly certain a species from another world would not know English," Castiel replied, looking away again.

"Were your parents Grammar Nazi's or somethin'?"

"My parents were in no way affiliated with Hitler or the Nazi party, no."

"Wow, so, back to alien, then."

Castiel regarded him blankly until Dean shrugged, "It's nothin', man. Ignore me."

"It was nice speaking with you, Dean, but I am afraid I must leave now."

"You haven't gotten a drink yet!"

"Yes, but there are no other empty seats besides the one you are saving, and I do not intend to just stand here."

Dean closed his eyes again, rubbing his forehead, "I _told _you. I'm saving it for someone."

"I know. Therefore I must leave."

Castiel turned away, leaving Dean sitting there, glaring at the countertop.

A voice appeared at his shoulder, his conscience, maybe.

"Well. That was rude."

"Jo, I don't need your _crap, _okay?"

The waitress rolled her eyes, "Dean, I get it. You're saving the seat, because you're always saving the seat. But that was rude. There's really no other way to put it."

"Dammit, Jo. Now you've gone and made me feel bad about it."

He slid from his stool and pushed through people to reach the door, arriving there at the same time as Castiel.

"I'm sorry, man. You don't have to leave."

"You're saving the seat for someone. It's fine."

Dean sighed, "No, it's not _fine. _It was rude. You can sit down if you want to."

"Won't I just have to get up again when the person you're saving the seat for comes back?"

"I've been saving that seat for two years, Cas, and they've never shown up. They're not going to show up."

* * *

><p>It became a regular thing. Dean would show up first, as soon as he got off work. He'd show up and sit down at the same barstool as usually—third seat from the left side of the bar. The seat to his right was always taken, for anyone who asked.<p>

Cas would show up, ask to sit down. Dean would tell him it was taken, and Cas would look away for a minute, and then he'd sit down anyways.

But not that day.

Dean showed up and found Cas already there, throwing back shots like crazy, one after the other.

He stopped a few feet behind the bar and leaned forward, "I think that seat is taken."

Cas glanced over his shoulder and smiled, "Ah! _Dean. _You're here! Please, please, _please _have a seat. It is so wonderful to see you! Absolutely positively wonderful. Hello."

Dean looked at Jo, confused, "How many of those has he had?"

"I lost count. It's insane. It didn't even start affecting him until a few minutes ago. His alcohol tolerance is out of this world."

Cas's words were slurred, and he dropped a hand on Dean's shoulder, "This…_seat…_is _taken, _Dean."

"Wow. You are _really _drunk, aren't you?"

"Drunk? I am most…_certainly not…drunk," _Cas broke off with a laugh, "_Not. Drunk._"

Jo raised an eyebrow, and turned towards Dean, "The usual?"

They sat there for an hour, maybe two, Cas slowing down with the drinking and mostly just kind of swaying, trying to stay of his barstool.

"Alright, buddy," Dean said, "It's time to go."

He helped Cas stagger out the door, waving away offers of help.

"Which one is your car?" Dean asked.

"No…car," Cas mumbled.

"What, do you freaking walk here? God, Cas, this place is far away from everywhere."

He helped Cas into the back seat of the Impala, and then slid into the front.

"Hey, Cas?" he asked, starting up the engine, "Where do you live?"

He was answered with a snore.

"Well, then," he sighed, and began driving home.

* * *

><p>Castiel woke up sprawled across a bed that was not his. The sheets were blue, not spotless white like his. The pillow was lacking stuffing, the bed hinges old and squeaking.<p>

He sat up, a raging headache pounding against his temples.

"Where…?"

A muffled thump sounded from the room next door, coupled with a burst of creative swearing. A few moments later, the door opened, and a ruffled Dean appeared.

"Here," he said, setting a glass of water and a Tylenol, "This'll help."

Cas nodded slowly, his voice raspy, "Thanks. Where…where am I?"

"My apartment. You were a bit too drunk to tell me where to take you."

"Oh."

Cas took the Tylenol, and then slowly stood, rubbing at his day-old stubble, "Can I take a shower?"

"Sure. Bathroom is through there. There are extra towels in the cabinet under the sink. I'll have breakfast ready for you, if you want some."

"Yes, thank you."

He stumbled into the bathroom, closing the door. Dean sat and waited until he heard the water come on, before walking back into the kitchen. Humming to himself, he set about scrambling some eggs, and throwing some bread in the toaster.

Cas finally emerged from the bedroom, hair wet and sticking up all over the place. He rubbed at his eyes and dragged himself to the dining room table, falling into a seat.

Dean sat across from him, setting down a small plate of food, digging into his own steaming pile of food.

"You alright, man?" he asked around a mouthful of eggs, "You seemed pretty…well, let's just say I ain't ever seen anyone drink like that."

"I am tired, and I have a headache, but besides that, I do believe I am alright, Dean. Thank you."

"You sure about that?"

Cas looked away, "I…yes, Dean. I'm _fine._"

"Whatever you say, man. Just finish your breakfast and I'll take you home."

Dean watched the other man as he slowly ate, frowning—if he was certain of one thing, it was that Castiel was not _fine._

Cas walked down the two flights of stairs and into the parking lot, Dean following.

"Did you carry me up all those stairs?"

Dean shrugged, pulling the driver's door open. Cas opened the passenger door, but stopped when Dean flinched and glared at him.

"Dean?"

"That seat is taken."

Cas refused to tell him where he lived, so Dean just dropped him off in the Harvelle's Roadhouse parking lot.

"You sure about this?"

"Yes, Dean. I am fine. Thank you."

Dean stared after him, holding back everything he wanted to say—_Cas, you aren't fine. Cas, why won't you let me take you home? Cas, what's wrong?_

But he didn't say anything. Why did he care? What was there about this strange, formal man with his ever-present trench coat and tie that made him feel all…protective?

He just wanted to make sure that Cas was safe, that he was okay.

_Why does it matter to you, anyways?_

He closed his eyes—_He's my friend, why __**shouldn't **__I care?_

_You don't have __**friends, **__Dean. Not anymore._

Dean swore under his breath, turning the car around and taking off, turning the volume up as high as it would go and speeding off down all those infamous back roads.

He kept glancing at the passenger seat—the leather was getting dusty, it needed a good cleaning. The entire car needed a cleaning. He'd never let it get this dirty.

With one hand on the steering wheel, he pulled a flask from his jacket and removed the lid, gulping it down. _God, _it burned. That was the point, though, right?

He almost didn't see it in time, probably wouldn't have if not for so many years of going out hunting with his uncle. Antlers.

The deer shot across the road, and he slammed the breaks, coming to a dust-flying, gravel-slinging halt.

His head dropped to his hands, and he sobbed. He cried until he couldn't breathe, until his chest was so tight that he couldn't breathe.

"Oh God," he sobbed, "God_dammit."_

That passenger seat…

_That seat is taken._

* * *

><p>A voice appeared at his elbow, calling quietly, "Hello. Is this seat taken?"<p>

Dean felt a smile start crawling across his face, and he looked up to see Cas standing there, his tie backwards as usual, same trench coat…

"Yeah. But I guess you can sit down anyways."

Cas slid onto the barstool, asking for a coffee, black.

"Didn't think you'd be coming. Figured after last Friday…I dunno. Thought you wouldn't come back."

"Why would you think that? I don't think it changed anything."

Dean closed his eyes—it had changed everything. He didn't have _friends, _but what else do you call the guy you carry up two flights of stairs and let sleep in your bed while you toss and turn on the couch all night?

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Why were you so…"

"Intoxicated?"

"Yeah."

Cas smiled, "Just…the world was just a lot. It's nothing."

_It's not __**nothing, **__Cas. Don't lie to me, Cas. What does that even mean? How can I help you._

"Okay, Cas."

"Why do you keep showing up here?"

Cas's eyebrows furrowed, "What exactly do you mean by this?"

"It's been a month. I never saw you in here, and then after one time, you start coming in every day. Why?"

"Am I inconveniencing you? I can leave, if you'd prefer."

Dean shook his head, sighing, "God, Cas, stop being a drama queen. I'm not asking because I want you to stop. Just wanted to know what changed. You never order anything alcoholic—well, except that once, but that doesn't really count. You're not here for the drinks, or the chicks. So what?"

"You, Dean. You're…kind."

This caused Dean to laugh and shake his head again, "You don't even know me, man. I'm not _kind. _I'm no reason for you to keep showing up."

Cas stared into his eyes long enough to make him uncomfortable, "Why do _you _keep showing up here, Dean?"

"For the drinks. For the chicks. Whatever, man. Forget I said anything."

"Who are you saving a seat for?"

Dean slammed his fist down onto the counter, causing heads to turn all around the place, "_Forget it, _Cas! Dammit."

He stood, throwing a few bills on the table and turning to leave.

People seemed to bump into him intentionally as he waded through them towards the exit. He shoved them out of the way, slamming the door behind him. He kicked the wall of the bar, swearing at the pain. He stumbled to the Impala, laying his forehead against the driver's door, closing his eyes, breathing.

A figure appeared behind him, the low voice too much right then, it was all too damn much.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Dean. I was merely curious."

Dean whipped around, swinging a fist straight across, connecting directly with Cas's jaw. The other man stumbled back, falling to the ground.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he mumbled, pressing a hand to his bloody nose.

"So that's _it? _You're not even going to defend yourself?"

"I'm sorry," Cas whispered.

Dean swore again, and he didn't mean to, but he kicked at the gravel just as Cas rolled to stand up, and his foot hit Cas's forehead.

* * *

><p>Cas woke up, head throbbing, in a bed that was not his.<p>

How strangely parallel.

But it was not Dean's bed, not this time.

The beeping of the monitor on his right was in perfect tune to the throbbing of his head, and when he reached up, he found that his nose had been carefully bandaged.

A nurse bustled in, smiling, "Ah! Good, you're awake. You should be able to leave as soon as we finish up these tests—nothing much, really. You had a small concussion and a bloody nose, but nothing was broken. You've got a nasty bruise, though. And a black eye."

"That is fine. Please finish your tests so that I may leave."

She patted his hand, "Sure thing, hon."

Dean sat in the waiting room, knee bouncing nervously. He looked up when the nurse came out, and he waved her over.

"Is he going to be okay?"

She nodded, "Oh, yes. He'll be just fine. What was the nature of this accident, again?"

"It was, um, it was just an accident. I'm sorry."

He released a pent up breath, staring at his shoes, counting the floor tiles.

_It's alright, Dean. He's going to be fine._

_But what if he __**wasn't **__going to be fine? Dammit. _

Standing, he smiled warmly at her, "Well, I'd better get going. Thanks for everything, ma'am."

She frowned, putting her hands on her hips, "Now that would be awful rude. Strand your friend here like that? He can't drive himself home, not recovering from a concussion."

Dean waved his hand, "Oh, I'm sure one of his family members will be by shortly to pick him up. You did call 'em, right?"

"We gotta have emergency contacts down for people in order to call their family, and Castiel here doesn't have any family on file. There's no one to call."

Dean bit his lip, "You mean that if he got seriously injured or sick or something, there'd be no one for you to call?"

"Right."

He sighed, "Here. Put down my phone number as an emergency contact."

The nurse nodded sharply, "Thanks. That means you'll drive him home, right?"

_He probably hates me now._

_What other choice do I have?_

Nurse Mosely wheeled him out the front door, where the Impala was idling. Cas stood unsteadily and opened the back door, sliding in.

Dean steered out of the hospital parking lot, glancing in the rearview mirror at the bruised, silent man in his backseat.

"Hey, Cas, where am I taking you?"

"Why are you doing this, Dean?"

Dean sighed, "I realize you probably don't want to ever see my face again, but there was no one else to take you home. Now, where am I taking you?"

Cas looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror, "_I _never want to see _you _again? Dean, you're the one who should be angry at _me._"

Dean caught his breath, pulling off the road into an abandoned lot. Cas cringed in the backseat, staring at him with huge, sad eyes, "Did I do something wrong again, Dean? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The other man didn't reply, instead just laying his head on the steering wheel and breathing deeply.

"Dean? Dean, are you alright?"

"How many times do I have to tell you, Sammy, it isn't always your _fault?_"

Cas blinked, once, twice, "Dean…who is Sammy?"

Dean slammed his palms against the steering wheel, "DAMMIT. _Dammit. _Forget I said anything. Forget it. Just…just tell me where to take you, Cas. Okay?"

"Just take me back to the Roadhouse."

"_No, _Cas. Not like this. Not when you're hurt, and it's _my fault. _God, I'm so sorry, Cas. I'm so sorry I hurt you. I can't _believe…_this is why I stay away from people, Cas. This is why I can't be trusted to even _approach _another human being. Dammit. I break everything I touch."

"Dean…"

"_Just give me an address, _Cas. I'll take you home, and you'll never have to see me again."

"What if I want to see you again?"

"Why would you want to see me again? _Ever? _I put you in the _hospital. _I'm a monster."

"You aren't a monster. It was my fault, anyways. As usual."

"You've been in the hospital for _hours, _because I punched you and then kicked you in the _face, _and you're blaming it on _yourself?_"

"1102 Paradise Circle."

Dean twisted around, staring at him in confusion, "What?"

"My address."

They spent the rest of the ride in silence, Cas fiddling with his tie, Dean staring blankly at the road.

When Dean finally found the place, he through the car into park and sat there in shock—it was _huge._

"You live in a friggin' _mansion_, Cas!"

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for _what?_"

"Sorry for everything. For inconveniencing you. For asking questions you didn't want to answer. For having you drive me. Just…sorry."

"If anyone should be sorry here, it's me. I hurt you. I can't…I'm becoming the monster I've fought so hard not to become."

"Dean…"

"Just get out of the car, Cas."

"No one has ever called me that before," Cas whispered.

He opened the door and left without another word.

Cas closed the front door of the house behind him, returning to his own ghosts. Alone with his own ghosts.

He wandered into the kitchen, grabbing an icepack from the freezer and pressing it to the side of his head.

Why couldn't he stop thinking about Dean?

He was this great mystery, and all Castiel—_Cas; _it sounded so much better, so _right_—wanted to do was figure him out. He wanted to own Dean Winchester's secrets.

It had been so long since he'd had a friend.

He wanted to know Dean's secrets, but he shouldn't have pushed so hard. He shouldn't have asked _that _question, the one, untouchable question. He wanted Dean to trust him with the answers. He wanted to know this strange, beautiful man.

How could Dean even think he could ever hate him? Yes, he'd hit him—but who hadn't? Didn't it always come down to that, the fists? It was something you got used to.

Cas closed his eyes, imagining the house as it once had been. Bright and full, full of children—he'd once been one of the many children in this house.

And now, he was the only one left.

A tear slipped from one eye, and he sniffed, brushing it away. He stood, busying himself with fixing lunch, or dinner, or whatever meal this was. He sang to himself, a song he'd heard in Dean's car.

"_Little drops of rain, whisper of the pain_

_Tears of loves lost in the days gone by_

_My love is strong, with you there is no wrong_

_Together we shall go until we die."_


	3. Truth or Dare

**3 ½ Years Ago**

"We've been meeting here for six months now, Cas. You wanna go somewhere else?"

Cas glanced up at him and smiled slightly, "And where, exactly, would we go, Dean?"

"Anywhere. I don't know. I can't sit here and watch these sleazy guys flirt with Jo. She's like a little sister to me, and it's making my skin crawl. Seriously."

Cas gave him a little half-smile, "If it doesn't bother Ellen, it shouldn't bother you. You know how protective she is."

Dean smacked the table, jumping to his feet, "_Yes!"_

"What?"

"You actually said a sentence like a _normal human being. _Not like a robot at all. Just _listen _to those words…_doesn't. Shouldn't. _You're talking like a real boy, Pinocchio!"

"I don't understand that reference. But, I suppose, I am beginning to sound a bit more like a…real boy? You must be rubbing off on me, Dean."

"Let's go somewhere."

Cas nodded, "Fine."

* * *

><p>Dean whistled to himself as he pulled out onto the road, driving back towards town.<p>

"Where are we going, though, Dean?"

He looked back at Cas, who was scrunched uncomfortably in the back, "I dunno. Where do you wanna go, Pinocchio?"

"Will you stop calling me that? I don't even understand what you're referencing."

"That's _it. _We're going to see a movie."

"A _movie?_"

"Yeah, at the theater. We need to immerse you in pop culture. I'm going to make a normal person out of you one day, Cas, if it's the last thing I do."

"Who on _earth _would want to be normal, Dean? Human normalcy, it's mindless. It's a little cruel. The 'norm' is not something I want to become."

"Not that kind of normal, Cas. You don't have to act like all of them, just…talk a little more like they do, maybe. Understand the references I make, at least, so I don't have to constantly explain everything I say."

Cas leaned forward so that his lips were uncomfortably close to Dean's ear and whispered, "Do you consider yourself _normal, _Dean?"

Dean sucked in a breath, swerving slightly before straightening the wheel again.

"Cas…"

"Yes, Dean?"

He gritted his teeth, "Personal…_space._"

_It is perfectly normal for two completely straight men to go and see a movie together. Of course it is. Obviously._

_At 8 at night?_

_Sure. Of course._

_Of course._

Dean flashed a dazzling smile at the woman behind the counter, "Two tickets, please."

She raised an eyebrow, "Tickets to…which movie?"

"Aaaah…um," Dean glanced around, looking for the listings, "You know what? Whatever. Something with lots of shit that blows up."

She laughed, "You got it."

* * *

><p>Cas did not stop talking.<p>

For the. Entire. Movie.

Dean kept rolling his eyes when Cas leaned over with yet another question—"Why did that explode, Dean, there was nothing explosive about it whatsoever?" "Dean, I don't understand, why do they trust this woman?" "See, I told you they shouldn't have believed her. She was obviously a double agent."

"Just _watch_," he muttered. The people in the rows in front of them kept turning around and shushing him.

"Cas, if you don't shut up, you're going to get us kicked out."

"But Dean, I don't _understand_, they—"

Dean sighed, "It's not supposed to make sense, Cas. Just watch it, _please._"

Afterwards, Dean drove him home. As Cas walked towards his front door, Dean rolled down his window, calling after him.

"Sorry about that, by the way! You hated it, didn't you?"

Cas turned around, leaning in through the window to talk to him, "Not at all, Dean. It was…_awesome, _as you might say."

Dean laughed, "You didn't stop talking during the entire _thing, _Cas. And now you're saying it's _awesome?_"

"I enjoyed the movie. Thank you."

"Whatever, Rain Man."

"I don't—"

"Yeah, yeah. We'll have to watch that one some other time."

Cas's face lit up, "You mean…we'll do this again?"

"Yeah, Cas," Dean blushed, telling himself he didn't know why, "Yeah. We'll do it again."

* * *

><p>Castiel flinched when he woke up to the sound of the phone ringing.<p>

That was never a good sign.

"Hello, this is Castiel Novak," he answered.

"Castiel! Where are you? You were supposed to be here half an hour ago!"

Cas glanced at the clock—8:30, "Terribly sorry, Mr. Shurley. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Good."

"Oh, and Chuck?"

"Yes?"

"I would like to be called Cas now."

* * *

><p>Dean parked and hopped out, jogging into the garage.<p>

"Sorry 'bout that, Bobby. Alarm clock is broken."

"Whatever, idjit. Just get to work."

Singer's Auto Repair Shop might not have paid much, and it was hard, dirty work, but it was a good job. Working for his uncle—maybe not uncle by blood, but more of a family than his father had ever been—was nice.

It also meant he wasn't likely to get fired for being late for the third time that week.

He couldn't stop thinking about Cas.

Cas's lips next to his ear, whispering.

_Do you consider yourself normal, Dean?_

Dean caught his breath again, just thinking about it.

_What's wrong with you, boy? Snap out of it._

"Snap out of it," he muttered to himself.

It was always his dad's voice in his head. He heard it in his dreams. It was like he couldn't get a break.

"Take care of your brother, Dean."

"That's not _good enough, _Dean."

"What's wrong with you, Dean?"

He pressed a hand to his ribs, feeling the places where they didn't heal right.

"_Damn_," he hissed, sitting up. He bumped his head on the hood of the car he was working on and cussed again, rubbing his forehead.

_Get it together, boy._

_Fuck off, Dad. I don't need your shit anymore._

* * *

><p>Cas shelved another book—the cover was green, like Dean's eyes.<p>

He shook his head, clearing it. What was he _doing?_

"Get yourself together, Castiel," he whispered under his breath.

He didn't even understand why he _needed _to get himself together. Why was he falling apart?

"Where do you wanna go?"

Cas shrugged, "I don't care."

"We can't go to the movies again, and—"

"Why not?"

"Well, for one, because we went like _last week. _And also because I can't afford it. Have you _seen _the price of a movie ticket these days? It's crazy."

"Can we see…what was it you called me? Rain Boy?"

Dean laughed, "Rain Man? I mean, yeah, if you want to. But that's not playing in theaters."

"Why not?"

"Uh, because that movie has been out for like, 20-something years?"

"Oh."

"Do you live under a rock or something?"

"I live in a large house, Dean. You've seen it many times."

Dean rubbed his forehead, "Not what I meant, man. Not what I meant."

"Whatever. We can go wherever you want to."

"God, put all the pressure on me, why don't ya? Okay…what's something you're interested in?"

"I don't know. Um, astronomy?"

* * *

><p>Dean hopped up on the hood of the Impala, beer in hand. Cas carefully slid up on the other side, wrapping his trench coat tight around him.<p>

"It would be easier if I had my telescope, but this is good, too. Very clear night."

Dean glanced awkwardly at him, laying right there.

_Oh, no, this isn't gay __**at all.**_

Not his dad's voice this time, but someone else's.

_Shut up, man._

"So, that's the Pleiades, or the Seven Sisters, as they're sometimes called, which is one of my personal favorite constellations, because…"

Dean smiled as Cas blabbered on about the stars, sipping his beer.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yes?"

"Are you listening?"

"Honestly? Not really. Sorry. Zoned out for a minute there."

"I asked if you wanted to do something."

"Like what?"

"Ummm…I don't know. Play Truth or Dare, maybe? I think I heard about that somewhere. Do people do that?"

Dean laughed, "Sure, teenage girls do."

"Oh."

_Damn. Now you've offended him._

"Sure, Cas. Let's play Truth or Dare."

* * *

><p>It was stupid stuff, mostly, at first. But the drunker they got, the crazier things became. They were parked next to the river, and it ended up with them both soaking wet and freezing cold—the dare to take a flying leap off a nearby bridge and into the water had been popular, and repeated.<p>

Eventually, they got too cold to continue, and sat in the Impala. They both sat in the backseat, huddled under all the blankets and towels they could scrounge up from the trunk, heat blasting.

"Cas?" Dean mumbled sleepily.

"Uh-huh?"

"Truth or Dare?"

Cas blinked, "Truth."

"Why did you get so drunk that one night?"

"Live in a big house, Dean. Lots of skeletons in the closets. I have six closets. That's a lot of skeletons."

"Aw, come on. That didn't even answer my…" he yawned, "Question."

"Yeah. It was the anniversary of the day the rest of my family moved to California without me."

Dean was silent for a minute, and then whispered, "Why'd they do that, Cas?"

"It's _my _turn now, Dean. Truth or Dare?"

"Truth."

"Who is Sammy?"

"My brother. My turn. Truth or Dare?"

"Truth."

"Why did your family leave?"

"Didn't love me, I guess. Or maybe it was the suicide stunt. Or the gay bit. I dunno. Truth or Dare?"

Dean didn't reply, and Cas yawned, "Truth, then. Why is the seat taken?"

"Different question, Cas. Anything but that."

"You have to answer."

"Anything but that."

"Dean, it's in the rules. You have to answer."

Dean took a long sip of beer, and then sighed, "Because that is Sammy's seat. It will always be Sammy's seat. I don't care if he never sits there again, it will always be Sammy's seat. No one else gets to sit there."

"Why do you let me sit there?"

"My turn."

"Why do you let me sit there?"

"Because, Cas. Because I don't know. Because I need someone to sit there and there isn't anyone else. Because he's gone and I want him back and your eyes are so blue and you have a really pretty face and if there is anyone other than Sammy I would want to sit next to me it would be you."

They were quiet for a while, and then Cas nudged the pile of blankets beside him.

"Dean?"

A faint snore answered him, and he yawned again, "Love you, Dean."

* * *

><p>Dean woke up crammed in the corner of the Impala. The seat belt was jammed into his thigh, and his neck was bent at the strangest angle he could imagine.<p>

Groaning, he stretched.

Cas was already up. He was standing outside, folding up the blankets and towels they'd dug out of the trunk. Carefully, he put them back. Dean watched for a while before opening the door and hobbling around to the back.

"I just finished," Cas said, putting the last blanket in.

"I don't know why all of these are even back here," Dean said.

"And all the moving boxes? Why are they back here?"

"I was moving. And then I decided not to."

Cas nodded like he understood, and maybe he did.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" he asked.

"Me? Great. I mean, cramped from sleeping in that position. And sore from one too many belly flops into the river. And I've got a nasty hangover. But besides that, yeah, I'm great."

"I think I'm late to work," Cas mumbled.

"I think you need to call in a sick day, man. I know I'm going to."

"Are you just going to stay in your apartment today, then?"

"That was my plan, yeah."

"Can I stay with you?"

Pieces of the night came flashing back to him—especially the last bit.

_"Didn't love me, I guess. Or maybe it was the suicide stunt. Or the gay bit, I dunno."_

"Listen, Cas—"

Cas flinched, turning to look at him, "I understand, Dean. You are a completely straight individual. You view me in a platonic manner. You're sorry, and you don't want me to get the wrong idea. I _know, _Dean. I've heard it before. I'm not going to come onto you or anything. I just don't want to go home and spend another day sitting alone in that huge, empty house."

Dean closed his eyes. The quality in Cas's voice—hurt, slightly. Resigned. Sad.

Lonely.

"Yeah, man. Sure. Just…"

"You're trying to say that you just want to be friends, and attempting to express that this doesn't change anything, even though it obviously does. I told you. I've heard it before, Dean. You're going to pretend that it doesn't matter, that you don't care, but eventually you'll stop talking to me, or you'll tell me that I make you uncomfortable, or you'll tell me not to get my gay all over you, like it's infectious or something. This isn't new."

"Cas…"

"You know what? Forget it. You can take me home. Or drop me off at the library."

"Cas, please—"

"Spare me. You know what? This is stupid. Every time—_every damn time_ I try to be friends with someone, this comes up, and it happens. Just like this. The disintegration of anything that looked like a friendship. Always. I don't want to stick around for it this time."

Cas opened the door, slamming it behind him.

Dean watched in the mirror as he walked down the gravel road and then set off onto the pavement, walking back towards his home.

Dean swore under his breath and threw the car into reverse, swinging back and then away from the riverbank. He turned right, the way Cas had gone, and slowed down next to him and reaching across to roll down the window.

"Leave me alone, Dean."

"Cas—"

"I said _leave me alone. _Or do you not understand that?"

"Jesus, Cas, would you just let me get a word in!"

Cas stopped, "_What?"_

"You're wrong, Cas. I'm not going to say that this doesn't change anything, because it definitely changes things. It means I can do this."

Dean slid into the passenger seat and reached through the window, pulling Cas's face down to his own and kissing him.

And kissing him. And kissing him.


	4. When I Finally Fall Apart

**Author's Note: Just apologizing again for the fact that I have to update everything. I realized that the formatting was off earlier-this fic is so difficult to read as it is!** **You see, I originally had different sections within the same chapter broken up by asterisks, but it appears that the website won't allow the formatting of an asterisk. So all the different sections were just muddled together. I'm fixing them now, but it's going to take forever and be incredibly inconvenient. Sorry again!**

3 Years Ago

"I can't believe you didn't go to college," Dean said. His head was in Cas's lap, and he was talking while Cas read, or at least attempted to read.

"Why is that so unbelievable?"

"Because you're a fucking _genius."_

Cas grinned, tickling him in the side, "_Somebody _owes a quarter to the swear jar!"

Dean laughed, pushing Cas's hand away, "Stop it. _Stop._"

"Ticklish, are you?"

"Yeah, actually. I am—would you _quit it_?—No, but seriously. You're so smart. Not to mention _made of money._"

Cas sighed, "Yeah. I wanted to be a neurosurgeon—would you _quit laughing? _It's a good job!"

"It's a brilliant job, Cas. Ignore me."

"I intend to ignore you. Anyways. I wanted to go to college, believe me."

"Why didn't you?"

"My father…"

Dean sat up, turning to face him, "What, Cas?"

"My mother forbade any of us from going to school. We were homeschooled, and then we joined the family business when we got old enough."

"And what's the family business? Being a royal _asshole?_"

"I'm not really sure. They never told me—they didn't tell anyone until they turned eighteen, and by that time, they'd already left me."

"If they left before you turned eighteen, why didn't you go to college?"

"I don't actually have any money. All of my things are actually owned by them, and I have no money of my own except what I make working at the library, which goes directly towards food and clothing."

Dean ran a finger over Cas's cheekbone and smiled, "You could've gotten a scholarship. You could _still _get a scholarship!"

"Dean…"

"What? You're only twenty! People go to college at all ages. You wouldn't be that much older than the other freshman."

"You could get a scholarship too, you know."

"No way. I'm a _mechanic, _if you hadn't noticed."

"A mechanic. And a genius."

Dean laughed, "No. Sam got all the brains, not me."

"Are you kidding me? You're a natural-born engineer."

Dean leaned over, kissing him on the nose, "Maybe we'll both go to college, huh?"

Cas rolled his eyes, "Maybe. In the meantime, I'm _trying _to _read._ Is there any possibility you could let me do that?"

Dean smirked, "Not likely."

* * *

><p>It didn't look depressing enough to be <em>that <em>day. The sky was too blue, the clouds too fluffy. The grass was just starting to turn green again from the winter. Cas was at the library, the garage was closed for the day.

Of course it was closed for the day.

How could either of them go to work on _that_ day?

He'd been with Cas for six months and they still hadn't talked about him. Not really. In passing, yes, mentions of him…

They didn't really talk much about either of their families.

Dean closed his eyes, remembering.

_Cas's fingers ran over his chest, tracing the edges of his ribs, circling his bellybutton. _

_"Dean?"_

_"Yes, sweetheart?"_

_Cas grinned, like he always did when Dean called him sweetheart. He laid his head on Dean's chest and listened to his heartbeat, running his thumb over the rows of ribs again._

_"When did you get your ribs broken?"_

_"I…my dad wasn't the nicest drunk, okay?"_

Dean shook it away, staring up at the ceiling. He had to get out of bed eventually, to go and meet Bobby. But he didn't want to move—everything hurt. Breathing. Thinking.

Remembering.

_"Bitch," he said, ruffling Sammy's hair._

_"Jerk!" his brother laughed, swatting his hand away._

"Dammit!" Dean spat, rolling out of bed.

He wandered into the bathroom, turning the water up hot enough that it scalded his skin, hot enough for the burn to hurt more than the ache in his chest.

_"It's your job to look after your brother, Dean."_

Dean felt a tear fall from one eye, and he tipped his face back, letting the shower wash it away.

_A silhouette looming, punching the wall beside his head. The fist sinking into the drywall two inches to the left of his ear._

_"It was __**your job, **__Dean! It was your job and you __**fucked it up! **__You utter fucking failure."_

_The next punch connected._

_So did the next._

Dean fell to his knees in the shower, sobbing. The tears poured over, mixing with the water. He dropped his head against the edge of the tub and screamed—he screamed at the world for being cruel, he screamed at his father, at his brother. He screamed at himself.

The water ran cold and he didn't notice, didn't care.

_You have to stop crying._

_Dammit, Dean, you're supposed to meet Bobby __**soon.**_

_Get up. Get __**up.**_

He couldn't get up. He couldn't breathe.

Dean stared at the blank walls of the tub, and they reflected a distorted version of him. A fun-house mirror reflection, but done all in black and white.

He didn't hear the door to his apartment opening, and he didn't hear Cas calling, "Dean? Are you still here?"

He didn't notice anything until Cas dropped to his knees beside the tub and kissed him, once, twice, again.

* * *

><p>Cas threw open the door, calling out, "Dean? Are you still here?"<p>

Bobby had called him when Dean didn't show up at the cemetery to ask where he was. Cas had left the library immediately when he found out what day it was—why hadn't Dean told him?

He heard the shower running and rushed to the bathroom.

The black and white tiles were soaking wet—Dean had forgotten to close the shower curtain. And there he was, looking like a drowned rat, curled at the bottom of the tub.

"Oh, God, sweetheart," Cas murmured, dropping to his knees on the wet tiles. He wrapped his arms around Dean's shaking body, not caring that the shower was spitting freezing cold water all over him, not caring that he was still fully clothed and Dean was soaking wet. His trench coat was soaked in moments, but he didn't care.

"Oh, baby," he whispered.

Eventually, he broke the embrace and turned the water off. Dean sat up slowly, tears still running down his face. He looked embarrassed, but mostly miserable.

He scrubbed at his face. His teeth were chattering, his lips blue. Cas grabbed a towel, wrapping it around him and helping him out and into the living room.

He grabbed blankets, piling them up on top of Dean, who couldn't stop shivering.

"Jesus, Dean, how long were you in there?"

Dean just shook his head, his voice too cracked and tearstained to use.

Cas blinked away his own tears—_be strong for Dean. You have to be strong for Dean_—and made a hot cup of coffee.

"Here. To warm you up."

Dean nodded, croaking, "Thanks, babe."

"You should've told me it was today. I wouldn't have left, you know. I would've stayed here for you."

Dean stared at him, "And why…" he cleared his throat, "Why would I want you to stay?"

Cas couldn't stop the tears, "Because…because I'm your _boyfriend, _Dean! Because I love you."

"Why would I want you to see me falling apart?"

"Maybe so you could let me put you back together again."

* * *

><p>Cas just didn't <em>understand.<em>

But how could he explain it?

Of _course _Dean didn't want him there. Why would he want to show Cas all of this? These buried scars, this ugly crying? Why would he want the one person whose opinion _actually mattered _to see him like _this?_

He didn't want to lose Cas. He'd lost so much, how could he stand to lose _this, _too? This thing that was so important, this thing that was, perhaps, more important than anything else in this sad, twisted existence.

Cas thought he could be strong enough to stand by and put him back together again, but Dean new he was barely keeping together as it was, and if he really, truly fell apart, he'd break into so many pieces that Cas would go insane trying to make him whole again.

One day, something would be too much for him, the weight on his shoulder would be too much, and he'd explode. And when that finally did happen, all those shards of Dean Winchester would be too sharp to handle, and he'd end up scarring this poor, beautiful boy.

Why didn't Cas see it?

Dean knew he should end things with Cas, that it was too much, that he'd end up hurting him one day. But looking up at him, with his hair tousled and his eyes searching, searching so hard for answers…Dean couldn't let go. He was too weak, too selfish, to say goodbye to Castiel Novak.

* * *

><p>Dean just didn't <em>understand.<em>

He wasn't protecting Cas by not telling him about this, about any of this. Dean wasn't trying to hold himself together, like he always told Cas he was when he got too close to the truth.

Dean was pushing everyone away so there'd be fewer casualties when he finally decided to self-destruct.

He was biding his time between now and The End, and there was a clock ticking in his mind, a bomb counting down to the last page of his story.

And all Cas wanted to do was diffuse the bomb.

_Why won't you let me help you?_

_Why won't you let me save you?_

"Do you think you don't deserve to be saved?"

He didn't mean to say it aloud.

He saw the words, crystallized in the air in front of them, and he lifted his hand as though to grab them, to stop them from being heard.

But it was too late, and he couldn't take them back now.

Dean flinched, "What?"

"Nothing."

"Cas…"

"Nothing, Dean. Drink your coffee."

Cas slid under the blankets beside him, pressing against his shivering body. He rubbed his hands up and down over Dean's arms, trying to warm him up, doing anything to warm him up.

Dean stared out the window, refusing to meet his eyes.

Cas laid his head on Dean's shoulder and started talking in a quiet voice.

"Do you remember last time we were soaking wet and huddled under the blankets like this?

"I remember the stars that night. They were bright, and there weren't any clouds, which was unusual for that time of year in this part of Kansas. I thought that maybe the stars had come out just for us, you know? I was trying so hard to be just friendly, not flirtatious, you know? I didn't want to scare you away.

"It was cold that night, but I didn't really notice. I think it's because I was blushing so hard. Going stargazing with a beautiful man like you? Who _wouldn't _be blushing? But I kept telling myself that it wasn't a date, just like I told myself that the movies weren't a date. I guess they were dates, weren't they?

"I don't know why I suggested Truth or Dare. Remembering myself back then…it was only six months, but I've changed so much. Just listen to me talk, Dean! A 'real boy', right? Pinocchio. I remember you calling me that.

"I was so awkward. I really did talk like I was reading out of an encyclopedia, didn't I? I still do, upon occasion. But here, next to you? This is my new normal, Dean. This is the only normal I want.

"Drunk Truth or Dare. Not the best idea, huh? But it let to this—not this moment, in particular, but _us. _So I guess Drunk Truth or Dare wasn't the worst idea, either. But I don't intend to do it again, not any time soon.

"Do you know when I fell in love with you, Dean? It was at the bar one night, a night you probably don't remember, it was just one of the many…and you looked up from the bar and looked right in my eyes and said, 'You know what I think, Cas? I think the world might keep turning without us humans, yes, but…I dunno. We destroy so much, but it's kind of beautiful, the way we tame the chaos. I think that our existence is a miracle, and too many people take it for granted.'"

Dean shifted next to him at this, twisting to face him, "I am a philosophical drunk, aren't I?"

Cas smiled, but it was a small, sad sort of smile, "You're a beautiful person, Dean."

"I'm a human, Cas. I destroy so much, and it might be kind of beautiful, but it's still destruction."

"Too many people take you for granted, Dean. I will never make that mistake."

Dean was shaking again, but this time it was because he was crying again.

Cas pulled him closer, and they sat there for a while, heads leaned against each other.

* * *

><p>Dean stood and stretched. He smiled at Cas's sleeping form on the couch—they'd laid there, curled together, for hours. They talked for a while, maybe, or maybe that had been a dream. They fell asleep, eventually, but Dean didn't know when.<p>

It was getting dark outside, the sun just started to stain the tops of the houses a soft orange.

He slipped into the bedroom, pulling on some jeans and a black tee, throwing his leather jacket on over it. He laced his boots, tied them. Stretched again, the vertebrae in his back cracking, one by one.

He grabbed the keys to the Impala, and then scratched out a brief note.

Hey babe. Had to run do something. Be back soon.

-Dean

The sound of his feet on the stairs bounced off the walls, and he jogged out the door and to the car, sliding into the front seat. He started it up and smiled.

"Listen to her purr!" he said, and then paused, realizing Cas wasn't in the passenger seat.

And yes, he finally had allowed him to sit there. It was time, he thought.

It took thirty minutes to drive from his apartment in Topeka to the cemetery in Lawrence, if he went a little over the speed limit. He had to make it in time.

He parked outside the cemetery, which was locked at night, and climbed over the fence. His watch read 11:30—he still had time. The day wasn't over yet.

Graveyards had never scared him, really. He knew them too well for them to scare him—the first time he'd stood in this cemetery, he'd been four years old and Sammy was a baby in his arms. He'd stood by as they dropped an empty casket into the ground and said it was his mother. It wasn't his mother—she'd been ashes, nothing to bury.

He picked his way through the gravestones, shining the flashlight on the letters.

_Where was it?_

There.

_Damn._

It still startled him, seeing that name there.

He traced the letters, cleaning them out. He knocked the dirt from the bottom of the J, the curve of the O.

John Winchester.

"I'm sorry, Dad. Dammit, I'm sorry."

Movement caught his eye, and Dean turned to see someone stand up from where they'd been leaned against a nearby oak tree.

"Dean…"

Dean's eyes widened, and he blinked away tears.

"S-Sammy?"

"I didn't think you were coming."

Dean grabbed his brother by the shoulders and pulled him close, hugging him tight.

"Dean, I'm sorry I didn't come and see you earlier. I just…I didn't know what to say."

"What? I think it's pretty simple. I _killed him, _Sam!"

"He fell down the stairs. Broke his neck. We both saw it."

"_Sammy. _I _pushed him._"

"You pushed him away from _me. _He was hurting me and you snapped. I know that, you know that—so stop blaming yourself. You didn't know he would fall."

"He always told me to protect you, Sammy. Goddammit. God_dammit._"

"Dean, it's _not your fault. _Listen to me. I don't blame you."

"So why haven't you spoken to me in two years?"

"I…that was a mistake. I was angry, okay, and rebellious. I ran off. Dad was gone, and you were confused and hurting and guilty, and I understand why you did it—"

"I was supposed to _protect you, _Sam! Not get drunk and nearly kill you!"

"You didn't _nearly kill me. _There was a car crash. I got a bruise and a cut and seat belt burn on my neck. You started yelling about how you were just like him, how you were turning into Dad, and I told you that you could never be like Dad, and you punched me. I was furious, and I said some things that I regret—"

"You told the _truth, _Sam!"

"You're nothing like Dad, Dean. You _raised _me. If anyone can see the good in you, it's me."

Dean sighed, glancing up at the stars. They reminded him of Cas—someone else who claimed to be able to see good in him.

"Anyways, I was mad, and I ran off, and when I came back, you were gone. I didn't know where to find you."

Dean hugged him again, patting him on the back, "God, you've gotten tall. You're all of 17 now, right? God. You should still be in high school. This is not okay."

"I _am _still in high school."

"How? You can't put yourself through high school, right?"

"I was technically an orphan, Dean. No parent. You were missing. It worked out."

"So what are you up to now, Sammy?"

"Applying to colleges, at the moment. I want to go to Stanford, become a lawyer. I have a girlfriend—her name is Jess, and she's _gorgeous._ What about you, Dean?"

"I've been working at Bobby's. I'm surprised he didn't tell you where I was."

"I…I didn't really contact Bobby. I had—have—a nice life, and wanted the past to go away. I mean, I looked for you, of course. But it was a good life, you know, and I didn't want to ruin it.

"So, working at Bobby's. Is that it? Any girlfriend I should know about?"

Dean smiled at the ground, "No girlfriend…"

"No?" Sam laughed—Dean always had a girlfriend.

"Uhh, yeah. No girlfriend. Boyfriend. His name is Cas."

Sam's jaw dropped and he bit back a laugh, pressing his lips together, "_Boyfriend?_ That's…wow. _Wow. _Unexpected."

"Shut up, bitch."

"Jerk."

* * *

><p>Cas woke up to the sound of the door opening.<p>

"Dean?" he mumbled, sitting up.

Dean's smile could've lit up the world, "Yep! Bought breakfast for you, beautiful. And, uh, we have a guest."

Cas narrowed his eyes and then opened his mouth—"Oh"—and wildly started brushing at his hair with his fingers.

A tall man ducked in behind Dean—Cas couldn't have imagined a man tall enough to make Dean look short. _Man_ was a little inaccurate, though—he was still a boy, whoever he was.

Cas stood, holding out his hand, but the boy just hugged him.

"Cas, this is Sam," Dean said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, "Sam, Cas."

_Sam?_

_As in Sammy?_

"Wha—I mean, um, hello, Sam, which I imagine is short for Samuel, which is a very nice name indeed, very biblical, although perhaps a bit odd accompanied by Dean, which is not exactly a biblical name, which suggests they're family names, which does, in fact, make sense—most names are family names, you know, and an even higher percentage of middle names are family names—"

Dean interrupted, speaking to Sam, "He talks when he's nervous."

Cas sighed and stopped, "Okay. Forget all that. Hello, Sam."

Sam laughed—so many people were laughing, and it was so different from the day before, with everyone crying, and Cas hadn't quite gotten over the crying, and didn't understand…

But it was all so beautiful, and he didn't want to ruin it.


	5. Let Me Know You

Cas sat in the waiting room, knee bouncing. Sam sat beside him, cup of coffee in hand.

"Are you sure you don't want—"

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Whatever you say."

"Can you please just tell me what _happened?_"

The nurse sighed, "Well, you already know the basics—"

"Tell me again."

She sighed, trying not to glare at the obstinate man in the trench coat. It was 4 am, and she'd been working for hours. She needed caffeine.

But she'd been here long enough to know better. These people were confused, and shattered, and scared. Little pieces of themselves were breaking away and falling apart, dissolving under the worry.

She saw it all the time. Loved ones who fell apart just when they were needed to be in one piece the most.

"Alright," she said soothingly, "I'll start from the beginning."

"Mr. Winchester was at a bar. He was very drunk—when he arrived, his alcohol levels were insanely high. A group of men who had seen him with you saw him. They beat him because of his…sexual orientation. He was very injured when he arrived here."

"How?"

"He sustained a concussion, a busted lip, three cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and two broken fingers. He is also severely bruised."

Cas nodded. All in all, it didn't sound terrible. It sucked, yes, but he would recover.

"Mr. Novak?"

Cas glanced back up at her, "Yes?"

"There is another small problem."

His heart paused beating, his breath caught—small problems were so rarely _small._

"The concussion seems to have affected more than it should have. Do you have any idea why this would be? We are prepping to do some tests right now, but if you have any information that could help us ascertain why—"

Sam interrupted, "Cas probably can't help you with that, but, um, I think I might be able to?"

The nurse shifted her attention to him, "Yes?"

"He...Dean had a very violent childhood. My father was abusive, and Dean," his voice caught, "Dean took all of the hits trying to protect me. But he also got into a lot of fights.

"At first it was stupid stuff—a scuffle on the playground. And then later there were the bar fights, and the bigger fights at school. But we were dirt poor, and we needed money, so he turned to, um, cage fighting?

"It was really messy, and he refused to go to the hospital for any of his injuries—he said the goal was to make money, not waste it on hospital bills.

"I mean, this was a while ago—maybe three, four years? But I dunno, maybe that has something to do with all this?"

The nurse bit her lip, "Yes. That's very helpful. Thank you."

It was all a whirlwind of tests and scans, and Cas just wanted to go back.

He shouldn't have said anything.

He shouldn't have let Dean leave.

He should've done something _different._

This was all his fault.

"Just…explain to me what's going on. But dumb it down so I'll actually understand it, okay?" Jo asked, sitting across from him.

"Well, uh. All the fighting Dean used to do," Cas started, and then stopped again. He cleared his throat, wiped his eyes, "Dean suffered from a lot of concussions because of all of his fighting, which weakened certain parts of his brain and skull. And that made…this concussion…"

He took a breath, "He's in a coma and they don't know if he'll wake up. This latest concussion was the final…the last…"

Jo squeezed his hand, "It's okay, Cas," she said, "I understand."

"No you don't," he whispered.

"What?"

He closed his eyes, but the tears didn't stop coming and he didn't know if he wanted them to, "No one understands. This is—it's all my fault."

"None of this is your _fault, _Cas. You didn't—"

"See? No one," he took a shuddering breath, one of those tear-laden inhalations that sounds like a small child's snoring, not a grown man's breathing, "No one understands. It's my fault and they all…they all tell me that it isn't, but they're wrong, they're all wrong. This is all," he paused, "This is all my fault."

Jo slid from the chair so that she was kneeling on the floor directly in front of him. She took his hands, staring up into his eyes, "You listen to me, Castiel Novak. This is_ not_ all your fault."

"Jo—"

"Would you just shut up for one fucking minute? _Listen to me. _Okay? Will you just listen to me for one minute?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"This might be your fault, Cas. A little bit. Maybe if you hadn't upset him, he wouldn't have gotten drunk and he wouldn't have ended up here. Fine, yeah, maybe. But there's a thousand other things that led to this—it's _all _of our faults, Cas.

"You know what? Maybe it's my fault. Maybe if I hadn't stolen beers from the Roadhouse for us when we were kids, he wouldn't have gotten into all those bar fights. Maybe if I hadn't supported his cage fighting as much as I did, he would've stopped before it got that far. Maybe if I hadn't stitched up his cuts and put ice on his bruises, he would've gone to the hospital and something would've been done before this.

"And maybe it's Sam's fault. Maybe if Dean hadn't been so determined to protect him, to provide for him, this wouldn't have happened.

"But it's _nobody's fault, _Cas. It's everyone's fault and it's no one's fault and we can't kill ourselves trying to figure out how we could've stopped it. Maybe we would've always ended up here, you know? His dad beating him led him here, his mom's death led him here—everything led him here.

"Maybe if he hadn't played with matches at a young age, there would never have been a house fire. Then his mom would still be alive, and his dad wouldn't have beaten him, and he wouldn't have hated himself.

"But you know what? _This, _this whole blame game? This is what made his dad into the monster that he was. He needed someone to blame for the death of his wife, and the only person to blame was Dean. Dean blamed himself for Sammy's lack of a mother—you think he would've suffered that many concussions if he hadn't wanted to? Come on. Dean was the best fighter I'd ever seen, but when it came down to it, he _wanted _to get hurt. He didn't go to hospitals because they couldn't afford it, sure, but mostly because he wanted to feel the pain.

"In the end, Cas, it's everyone's fault—and his, most of all. But you don't blame him, do you? You don't hate him for this, do you?"

Cas was crying too hard to reply, but he shook his head, he shook his head and everything shook with it—his heart rattled against the inside of his rib cage, his lungs shook against his chest, his bones clinking against one another as he fell apart.

"Of course not," she whispered, "Of course you don't hate him for this. So why hate yourself?"

It was not as dramatic as the movies make it out to be.

His eyes didn't flash open, he didn't gasp out one, desperate word. He didn't say anything at all.

His hand twitched.

His hand twitched, and his eyes fluttered a little bit—but it was enough.

"Try not to upset him," the nurse murmured, "He's a bit…emotionally unstable right now. And very tired."

Cas nodded, stepping quietly into the room.

He sat at the chair by the side of Dean's bed. They were silent for a moment—Dean was still somewhat delirious, and Cas didn't have any words left. He didn't have any words at all.

"C-Cass?"

He smiled, taking Dean's hand in his own, careful not to disturb any of the tubes and wires, "I'm here, sweetheart."

"Tired."

"I know. I know, my love."

Cas tried to ignore the beeping of the machines, the familiar buzz of the lights, the smell of a hospital room that was entirely unique.

He didn't want those memories.

The tears falling from his eyes weren't worried or grieving or happy, and they weren't tears for the past, but more arbitrary, obligatory tears that came without reason or meaning.

He liked to think so, anyways.

"Cas?"

He forced himself to smile, rubbing at his eyes with a sleeve, "Yes?"

"Y'look like shit."

Cas coughed out a surprised laugh, "Thanks. You too."

"Sleep, Cas. D-don't worry…bout me."

Cas pressed his lips together and stared at the ceiling, trying to force away this strange, pointless sadness.

Even now, Dean was trying to protect him.

_Let me protect you for once._

_Please, just let me protect you._

"I'm always worrying about you, Dean. It comes with loving you."

"Mmm."

Cas swallowed hard, and then looked back at him—he was asleep.

He was _alive._


	6. Blame

Cas sat in the waiting room, knee bouncing. Sam sat beside him, cup of coffee in hand.

"Are you sure you don't want—"

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Whatever you say."

* * *

><p>"Can you please just tell me what <em>happened?<em>"

The nurse sighed, "Well, you already know the basics—"

"Tell me again."

She sighed, trying not to glare at the obstinate man in the trench coat. It was 4 am, and she'd been working for hours. She needed caffeine.

But she'd been here long enough to know better. These people were confused, and shattered, and scared. Little pieces of themselves were breaking away and falling apart, dissolving under the worry.

She saw it all the time. Loved ones who fell apart just when they were needed to be in one piece the most.

"Alright," she said soothingly, "I'll start from the beginning."

"Mr. Winchester was at a bar. He was very drunk—when he arrived, his alcohol levels were insanely high. A group of men who had seen him with you saw him. They beat him because of his…sexual orientation. He was very injured when he arrived here."

"How?"

"He sustained a concussion, a busted lip, three cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and two broken fingers. He is also severely bruised."

Cas nodded. All in all, it didn't sound terrible. It sucked, yes, but he would recover.

"Mr. Novak?"

Cas glanced back up at her, "Yes?"

"There is another small problem."

His heart paused beating, his breath caught—small problems were so rarely _small._

"The concussion seems to have affected more than it should have. Do you have any idea why this would be? We are prepping to do some tests right now, but if you have any information that could help us ascertain why—"

Sam interrupted, "Cas probably can't help you with that, but, um, I think I might be able to?"

The nurse shifted her attention to him, "Yes?"

"He...Dean had a very violent childhood. My father was abusive, and Dean," his voice caught, "Dean took all of the hits trying to protect me. But he also got into a lot of fights.

"At first it was stupid stuff—a scuffle on the playground. And then later there were the bar fights, and the bigger fights at school. But we were dirt poor, and we needed money, so he turned to, um, cage fighting?

"It was really messy, and he refused to go to the hospital for any of his injuries—he said the goal was to make money, not waste it on hospital bills.

"I mean, this was a while ago—maybe three, four years? But I dunno, maybe that has something to do with all this?"

The nurse bit her lip, "Yes. That's very helpful. Thank you."

* * *

><p>It was all a whirlwind of tests and scans, and Cas just wanted to go back.<p>

He shouldn't have said anything.

He shouldn't have let Dean leave.

He should've done something _different._

This was all his fault.

"Just…explain to me what's going on. But dumb it down so I'll actually understand it, okay?" Jo asked, sitting across from him.

"Well, uh. All the fighting Dean used to do," Cas started, and then stopped again. He cleared his throat, wiped his eyes, "Dean suffered from a lot of concussions because of all of his fighting, which weakened certain parts of his brain and skull. And that made…this concussion…"

He took a breath, "He's in a coma and they don't know if he'll wake up. This latest concussion was the final…the last…"

Jo squeezed his hand, "It's okay, Cas," she said, "I understand."

"No you don't," he whispered.

"What?"

He closed his eyes, but the tears didn't stop coming and he didn't know if he wanted them to, "No one understands. This is—it's all my fault."

"None of this is your _fault, _Cas. You didn't—"

"See? No one," he took a shuddering breath, one of those tear-laden inhalations that sounds like a small child's snoring, not a grown man's breathing, "No one understands. It's my fault and they all…they all tell me that it isn't, but they're wrong, they're all wrong. This is all," he paused, "This is all my fault."

Jo slid from the chair so that she was kneeling on the floor directly in front of him. She took his hands, staring up into his eyes, "You listen to me, Castiel Novak. This is_ not_ all your fault."

"Jo—"

"Would you just shut up for one fucking minute? _Listen to me. _Okay? Will you just listen to me for one minute?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"This might be your fault, Cas. A little bit. Maybe if you hadn't upset him, he wouldn't have gotten drunk and he wouldn't have ended up here. Fine, yeah, maybe. But there's a thousand other things that led to this—it's _all _of our faults, Cas.

"You know what? Maybe it's my fault. Maybe if I hadn't stolen beers from the Roadhouse for us when we were kids, he wouldn't have gotten into all those bar fights. Maybe if I hadn't supported his cage fighting as much as I did, he would've stopped before it got that far. Maybe if I hadn't stitched up his cuts and put ice on his bruises, he would've gone to the hospital and something would've been done before this.

"And maybe it's Sam's fault. Maybe if Dean hadn't been so determined to protect him, to provide for him, this wouldn't have happened.

"But it's _nobody's fault, _Cas. It's everyone's fault and it's no one's fault and we can't kill ourselves trying to figure out how we could've stopped it. Maybe we would've always ended up here, you know? His dad beating him led him here, his mom's death led him here—everything led him here.

"Maybe if he hadn't played with matches at a young age, there would never have been a house fire. Then his mom would still be alive, and his dad wouldn't have beaten him, and he wouldn't have hated himself.

"But you know what? _This, _this whole blame game? This is what made his dad into the monster that he was. He needed someone to blame for the death of his wife, and the only person to blame was Dean. Dean blamed himself for Sammy's lack of a mother—you think he would've suffered that many concussions if he hadn't wanted to? Come on. Dean was the best fighter I'd ever seen, but when it came down to it, he _wanted _to get hurt. He didn't go to hospitals because they couldn't afford it, sure, but mostly because he wanted to feel the pain.

"In the end, Cas, it's everyone's fault—and his, most of all. But you don't blame him, do you? You don't hate him for this, do you?"

Cas was crying too hard to reply, but he shook his head, he shook his head and everything shook with it—his heart rattled against the inside of his rib cage, his lungs shook against his chest, his bones clinking against one another as he fell apart.

"Of course not," she whispered, "Of course you don't hate him for this. So why hate yourself?"

* * *

><p>It was not as dramatic as the movies make it out to be.<p>

His eyes didn't flash open, he didn't gasp out one, desperate word. He didn't say anything at all.

His hand twitched.

His hand twitched, and his eyes fluttered a little bit—but it was enough.

"Try not to upset him," the nurse murmured, "He's a bit…emotionally unstable right now. And very tired."

Cas nodded, stepping quietly into the room.

He sat at the chair by the side of Dean's bed. They were silent for a moment—Dean was still somewhat delirious, and Cas didn't have any words left. He didn't have any words at all.

"C-Casss?"

He smiled, taking Dean's hand in his own, careful not to disturb any of the tubes and wires, "I'm here, sweetheart."

"Tired."

"I know. I know, my love."

Cas tried to ignore the beeping of the machines, the familiar buzz of the lights, the smell of a hospital room that was entirely unique.

He didn't want those memories.

The tears falling from his eyes weren't worried or grieving or happy, and they weren't tears for the past, but more arbitrary, obligatory tears that came without reason or meaning.

He liked to think so, anyways.

"Cas?"

He forced himself to smile, rubbing at his eyes with a sleeve, "Yes?"

"Y'look like shit."

Cas coughed out a surprised laugh, "Thanks. You too."

"Sleep, Cas. D-don't worry…bout me."

Cas pressed his lips together and stared at the ceiling, trying to force away this strange, pointless sadness.

Even now, Dean was trying to protect him.

_Let me protect you for once._

_Please, just let me protect you._

"I'm always worrying about you, Dean. It comes with loving you."

"Mmm."

Cas swallowed hard, and then looked back at him—he was asleep.

He was _alive._


	7. And Then I Met You

"Hey, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"I realize you were trying to be sweet and all, but your cooking _sucks._"

It was so perfect, being home.

The burgers were charred and inedible, and the bread was not toasted so much as cremated.

But when was it ever about the food?

He was _home._

The apartment looked neglected—Cas had spent the past two weeks practically living in the hospital, attending his classes sporadically, doing most of his homework but turning some of it in incomplete. His grades had suffered a bit, but Dean knew Cas could fix them in no time—he was a genius, after all.

Cas sighed, dropping the burger back onto his plate, "True enough. Do you want me to order a pizza?"

He nodded, "Yes please. Extra cheese with—"

Cas interrupted, "Extra cheese with sausage a pepperoni, yeah, I know."

Dean grinned, "And you said you don't know me."

Cas flinched as though he'd been physically injured. He clenched his teeth, "Dean…can we please not—"

"Not talk about it? Why not? What if I _want _to talk about it?"

"_Please,_" Cas whispered, turning pleading eyes towards him, "I caused enough damage the first time. Let's just forget I ever said that, okay?"

"No—"

"Why _not_, Dean, clearly you didn't want to talk about it _then. _What changed?"

"What _changed? _You were _right, _Cas, and what changed is that I have been in the hospital for two and a half weeks, and you stayed there for every single day. You stayed there despite the fact that I almost wrecked your life with my carelessness, despite the fact that I hurt you and I'm guaranteed to hurt you again, you stayed despite the fact that I'm _sure _it sucked in there—I saw it, you know, how uncomfortable the hospital made you.

"The truth is, Cas, I haven't let you know me because I was so sure that you wouldn't love me if you really knew me, if you knew how awful I really am, you'd never stick around.

"But I know better now, Cas. You stayed there for me for _two weeks. _And you know what? If you do leave once you get to know me, _really _know me, then…then I guess that's okay. Because does love really count if I let you love me blindly, without knowing me at all?"

Cas set down the phone, the number for the pizza place only half typed in.

"Okay," he replied.

"Okay?"

"Tell me about yourself, Dean Winchester."

Dean twisted shifted uncomfortably, scooting so that Cas could sit beside him on the couch. He turned so that he could reach out with the hand that was not broken and twined their fingers together.

"Alright," he breathed, "I'll tell you about me, but only if you talk about yourself, too. You've never let me get to know you, either."

* * *

><p>"I was four when my mom died. I was unsupervised and stupid, and I'd found a box of matches. The house was old and dry, and I guess…I don't really remember all of it. I remember that it was really hot, and I didn't know what to do, and I ran downstairs to get my dad, and my mom was asleep, and it spread like crazy…<p>

"I don't know. I can't remember everything. I remember my dad arriving home to me sobbing in the front yard, sparks raining down on me, with Sammy in my arms. He took me away from the house and then ran back in, but it was too late.

"He drove around for a while, picking up odd jobs to make money, and doing other stuff, too—not entirely legal. Counting cards, that sort of thing. He didn't want to settle down because he thought that nowhere could be home without her.

"He blamed me—that's why he started the punching, the kicking, all that. But I guess it just became something else for him to do. I dunno. I don't presume to know his reasons.

"I was six the first time he hit me—I asked about Mom, I think, like when her birthday was or something? And he started yelling at me, talking about how none of this would've happened if I'd been a better kid.

"And I guess he was right, ya know? When you tell your kids not to burn the house down while you're away, it's a joke, right? You don't seriously worry about it. But yeah—yeah, maybe if I'd listened, none of that would've happened.

"He'd go out for hours at a time, tell me to keep Sammy safe. And then he'd say 'Don't burn anything down while I'm gone'. He said it every time.

"We swung by the Roadhouse a lot—he'd drop us off and we'd hang out with Jo and Ellen would make us food and stuff.

"My dad sounds like he sucks, I know that, and he _did _suck. I mean, I can't say that he didn't, what with the fact that he beat me and all. But it made sense. I get why he did it. He was pissed and hurting and lonely, and he loved her, he really did—his love for her got all tangled up with his love for me, and he hated the thing that took his wife away from him, but he didn't really hate _me. _

"He never hit me when he was sober. Then he was actually okay—he'd take us out shooting sometimes, and man, he was so proud of me for being a good shot.

"Sometimes he dropped us off at Bobby's, and that was pretty nice. Bobby wasn't quite so sober, himself, but at least he wasn't a mean drunk.

"We settled down a little when Sammy started school. He got a house in Topeka, so that he could be close to Lawrence without actually having to be _in _Lawrence. He still got drunk and he wasn't the greatest dad, but it was better than the early years.

"He couldn't really hold a job, either, so I started working before it was even legal. Once I turned about 15, though, I started getting a reputation—I was a fighter, a drinker, a heartbreaker. Bad news, you know? I did some stupid shit. I was torn between helping Sammy and doing what I wanted, which was get drunk and make a mess and get into a fight, because I blamed myself and Dad blamed me and I didn't give a shit.

"Honestly, the only reason I didn't kill myself back then was because of Sammy."

Cas choked back a sob, and Dean gave him a sad smile, "You wanted to know, Cas."

"Yeah. I did. Keep…keep going."

"Okay, so. Um. I got into a lot of fights, and school sucked, and I hated it so much—I was popular as a kid, you know, and kind of a bully, and I didn't really let people get close to me. I don't want to go to college because I don't want to go back to being _that _person—the one who surrounds themselves with the fakest people so that they don't have to remember what's real.

"Anyways, that was my childhood. Kissed a lot of girls—and a few boys, actually—drank a lot of beer, got in a lot of fights.

"The first time I got in a fight was because I wanted to have an excuse for the bruises, the ones form my dad. People were investigating and I got scared.

"But it became a bad habit—I guess kind of an addiction. I was really good at it, but I let people hurt me as much as possible and yet I'd still win, because I liked it. I liked being the injured hero, and having people take care of me, and I guess I was kind of punishing myself, although not consciously.

"I got into cage fighting because we needed the money and other reasons, complicated ones. It was fun, too, for a while. But then I beat some kid—man. I was drunk, and that was against the rules, you were supposed to be sober when you fought. But I was drunk and I beat this kid too hard, pushed too far, and he had to be taken out on a stretcher…

"He made it, but damn, was I scared. I went by the hospital but his family was in the waiting room and I was a coward, I just couldn't face them.

"He had older brothers, and a younger one, and I kept thinking 'What if it was Sammy?'

"That's when I stopped cage fighting.

"I got better from there, stopped fighting so much, stopped drinking so much. Had an actual relationship. I applied to college, actually. My grades sucked until my senior year, when I finally started trying. All the Cs from previous years didn't match up to the perfect scores, but I dunno. I guess my scores on the SATs made up for a disappointing GPA. I got into MIT, actually.

"But then I left my room to go out one night and found my dad standing at the top of the stairs, kicking Sammy. Sam was old enough to defend himself, and he knew how to fight, too—I taught him myself. But he was just standing there, taking the hits…

"I slammed into my dad, pushing him off Sammy. It was just like in the movies, you know—his arms pinwheeling out on either side, his eyes wide, mouth open.

"He fell down the stairs. His neck was already broken by the time he reached the bottom. I stood there, holding Sammy, and we just kind of stared at his body…

"It was ugly after that. One night I was taking Sammy somewhere—I don't remember where, a date maybe, something. I was drunk off my ass and—fuck, Cas. I nearly killed him. I ran off the road and into a tree, and the crash wasn't that bad, really—the car was alright and he was just a little bruised. I don't remember what happened to me, actually. I think I was hurt, but I don't remember. All I remember was not being able to breathe because all I could do was scream Sam's name.

"He looked at me and said something I didn't want to hear—he said I was just like Dad, and I was, and I punched him in the jaw. I nearly got the kid killed and then I punch him? God. It was like all at once I turned into everything I didn't want to be.

"He ran off, and I didn't look too hard for him—I figured he was better off away from me. I moved out of the house and into an apartment, cleaned up, tried to live some kind of life that I could be proud of.

"And…and then I met you."

They were quiet for a moment, and then Cas reached forward, taking Dean's chin in his hand. He closed the distance between the two of them, pressing their lips together.

"Cas…all I do is screw up people's lives. You should," he caught his breath as Cas kissed his jawline, "You should run…as far…from me…as possible."

"I don't think," Cas smiled against Dean's cheek, his tears dribbling onto Dean's face, "I don't think I can run away from you, Dean."

"Why don't you hate me, Cas?"

"How could I hate you when I love you this much?"

* * *

><p>Cas pulled away from Dean, rubbing at his face. Dean's childhood was horrible, but he understood. Dean thought of himself as a monster and couldn't see that everyone else saw him as an angel.<p>

"Cas?"

"I guess…I guess I have to tell you about _me _now, right?"

Dean nodded, "Yeah."

"Um. Okay.

"I was born into a small family. The Miltons. I had a sister named Anna…our parents put us up for adoption when we were very young. I don't remember much about them, my birthparents, although Anna claimed they didn't love us, and that was why we ended up in an orphanage.

"We were adopted by the Novaks. Naomi—she never made us call her Mom, which was good, because she acted more like a drill sergeant—Naomi couldn't have children, so she adopted them. There were five of us: Michael, the oldest, then Luke, Gabe, Anna, and I.

"Naomi's husband died soon after I was adopted, but Michael took up position as 'man of the household'. Which meant keeping the rest of us in line.

"Luke was a rebel—he and Michael would get into huge, screaming fights while Anna and I huddled together somewhere. The worst was when they threw things. For years, the sound of shattering glass made me duck.

"Gabe rebelled in other ways. He was a bit of a trickster. He pranked everyone…he and Luke were very close, up until the end.

"From a very young age, we learned to do exactly what we were told and nothing else. If Naomi or Michael commanded it, you did so, and immediately. Not cleaning your room didn't result in being grounded or reprimanded, but rather being beaten and kicked out of the house for a day or two. We'd sneak each other food whenever they locked us out.

"And it wasn't always just the five of us. There were others—Raphael, Rachel, others. But as soon as they turned eighteen, they disappeared. Gone into the 'family business'. Naomi and Michael wouldn't tell us what that was, of course, not until we were old enough. I got the feeling it was entirely legal.

"Gabriel…God, Dean, I don't want to tell you this. I don't want you to feel any worse than you already do."

Dean was staring at him blankly, as though he was still trying to process this strange life, "Cas…how did you grow up in such a place? How could that strange, militaristic _hell_ spit out an angel like you?"

_I want to know the same thing about you, Dean._

He glanced away shyly, and Dean coughed, "Sorry. Continue."

"Gabriel liked fighting. We were homeschooled, and we weren't allowed any social interaction, but he liked to sneak away with Luke and go out to bars. But one night…he was in a fight, and the guy he was fighting just went after him, tore him apart. We all ended up standing there in the hospital waiting room, looking like we'd never left the house before—mostly because we hadn't."

Dean's jaw dropped, and then he swallowed hard, "Are you saying—are you—the boy I beat up was your _brother?_"

"Yes."

"Oh, God, Cas."

"Yeah, well. There's nothing to be done about it now, and I'm not angry. Stop giving me that look—I'm _not angry._

"Anyways, while I was out of the house in the waiting room, Naomi sent me to get something from the store. And I met someone, and—I don't know, I suppose you could call it my first relationship?

"His name was Balthazar, and he was attractive—although not as attractive as you—and there was something about him that made me want to get away from the dictatorship of my house.

"So I'd sneak out to meet him—not often, but enough. It didn't go anywhere, really. We'd go to the mall and I'd indulge his kleptomania simply because it made me feel powerful, which is, I suppose, part of the problem that kleptomaniacs have.

"In short, Michael found out. In addition to being very strict, the Novaks were very religious…not only was it a problem that I was _gay_, but I was sneaking out, too.

"I was sixteen when they found out, and spent two weeks in the hospital from the beating Michael gave me. They told the nurse Gabe had gotten me into cage fighting, and she bought it.

"I was seventeen the next time I had to go to the hospital, this time because the world had become too much for meand I'd elected to make an untimely departure—that is, to kill myself."

Dean closed his eyes, turning away, but Cas could see his shoulders shaking.

"It was…It was because of a lot of things, I guess. I missed Balthazar, even though I never really cared all that much about him, and I missed Anna, who they wouldn't let me talk to because I was, apparently, a bad influence. They thought that the whole _gay_ thing was infectious, I guess. It was because Michael, who'd never really noticed me before, now paid more attention to me than he did to Luke—even when Luke legally changed his name to Lucifer, which seemed more blasphemous, to me.

"By the time I got out of the hospital from my suicide attempt, they were gone. Balthazar had mysteriously disappeared, too—I still don't know what they did to him. I don't think I want to know.

"So, I lived alone for three years, resisting the urge to try and kill myself again…and then one night I realized it was the anniversary of the day I'd tried to commit suicide and was worried I'd do it again so I walked to the Roadhouse because I knew I couldn't kill myself if I was surrounded by people.

"And then I met you."


	8. Why

Dean stared at the ceiling, trying not to move too much. His ribs hurt, and Cas had fallen asleep with his head on Dean's chest, and it hurt to move.

But he didn't want to disturb Cas, who hadn't been getting enough sleep recently, anyways.

"Dean?"

He glanced down at Cas, inhaling sharply at the pain in his ribs.

"Yeah?"

"Why do you love me?"

Dean stared at him for a moment and then gave him a small smile, "All the reasons, Cas."

"Dean, please."

"I love you because…Dammit, Cas, you never ask easy questions, do you?"

"I make it a point not to."

"Sometimes the sun rises and it's like the world outside isn't the same one that it was yesterday, you know? Like something about the way the sun is coming up, or the color of the sky—I dunno, there's just something about it and it makes the world new again. Or moments when it's like your eyes are all out of focus and suddenly everything becomes very, very clear, like you've just adjusted your binoculars and you can finally see again. Do you know what I'm talking about?

"Looking like you is like that. You make my eyes focus, Cas, and then you're all I can see. Like art pieces that have one, clear focal point, like everything is bleeding in towards one spot. You're my focal point, Cas."

He took a breath, and it hurt in his chest and it burned in his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough with tears, as though perhaps he had something stuck there—his heart, maybe.

"I love you because you make the world light up like the sun. I love you because you see the world in a way that no one else seems to—like there's something you understand, some great secret or cosmic conspiracy, and…

"I," he stopped for a moment, pressing his lips together, "I love you because you don't look at me like I'm damaged goods or like I'm just a fine piece of ass or like I'm just another bad boy looking for a good time. You don't look at me like you think you understand me, either.

"You look at me…you look at me like you can see something inside me that no one else does. Like I'm something special and I don't know it yet."

Cas sat up onto his knees, facing Dean, "You _are _something special, Dean."

Dean brushed a finger over Cas's lips, "Shhh…I'm not done, sweetheart."

"I love you because you're brave, but not in the normal sort of way. You don't want to run into burning buildings and you don't want to go to war, but you would—you're a peaceful soul, Cas, but you're a peaceful soul that's willing to fight for what you believe in. You're willing to fight for _me_, and I don't know—I don't know if I've ever had that before.

"I love you because you, Castiel Novak, don't just want to save me—you want me to believe that I deserve to be saved."

* * *

><p>"Dean…"<p>

"Cas, you stayed at that hospital even though every time a machine beeped it made you cringe. You care about me, and…I'm just…I've just been needing someone to care about me."

"Of _course _I care about you, Dean! I _love _you!" Cas brushed his fingers over Dean's cheekbones, running them over his lips.

"How?"

Cas tilted his head, "Do you mean _why?_ Why do I love you? I suppose it's only fair for me to answer that question, given you did, but—"

Dean sighed, "I guess why, yeah. Why do you love me—how _can _you love me? I'm a monster."

"You said it yourself, Dean. I see something in you that you choose to overlook. I see a man who sacrificed everything he could've been, everything he could've had, for his little brother. A man who would give his life for me, and for Sam, and for a random stranger on the street. You're a knight in shining armor in a world that is full of tyrant kings, and you could be so much if you stopped telling yourself that you're another one of the antagonists. Your life is a story, Dean, and you are most certainly the hero."

_I love you because you don't make me want to show you the stars, you make me want to pull them from the heavens and give them to you as presents._

_I love you because you are the most righteous man I have ever met and yet you can't stop comparing yourself to the devil._

_I love you because you don't __**want **__to save me at all—without trying, you already have._

"I love you because you are not who people want you to be, Dean Winchester, but rather who you need to be."


	9. Everything

2 Years Ago

"Come on, Cas. It's been _forever _since we've gone on a real date!"

Cas batted Dean's hand away, "I have exams soon, Dean! I have to study."

"You're acing all of your classes!"

"These exams are _important, _Dean! You need to get out of here for a while—go down and stay with Sam for a while. Annoy him. I'm _busy._"

Dean groaned, leaning back on two legs of his chair, "Sam is busy, too. It's exam season _everywhere._"

"I'm sorry, Dean, but this is really important to me."

"I know, Cas, and I'm sorry. Go back to work. I'm going to go…I don't know. Find something to do."

Cas nodded absently, immersed in his textbook.

Dean watched him for a long moment and then sighed again, grabbing the car keys from the table.

* * *

><p>It was obvious how stressed Cas was—that much was obvious simply from the fact he hadn't made Dean promise to be careful as he left. Ever since the bar fight, Cas had kept watch over him.<p>

There just wasn't anything to _do._

He worked at the garage and then he went home to Cas. His life was so simply divided into those two pieces—work and Cas, work and Cas. What else was there?

What else did he need?

He had friends, sure—Benny, for one, and Jo—but neither of them lived anywhere near here.

In the last year of living in California, his life had been completely wrapped up in Cas.

Cas was _everything. _Cas had stars caught in his blue eyes—and _damn, _they were blue. The sky didn't capture it, or the ocean, because Cas's eyes were more than that. They were a color of their own—they were slate and cyanate and cobalt and steel. They were a million questions and a single answer.

And when he _talked_…he could go on and on about the most boring things and Dean still found them fascinating. He didn't even hear all of the words—he would just close his eyes and listen to Cas's voice, losing himself in the warm, gruff sound—it rolled against his ears, and it pulled something up from the depths of his chest that he hadn't known was there before.

It was strange, being in love with him.

Dean didn't understand half of the things he talked about, and the way Cas saw the world—it was unlike anything Dean had ever seen. He had this way of looking at every single thing as though it were the first time he'd seen it, like everything held its own little slice of perfection.

A good movie good leave him smiling for hours, and things that most people just accepted prompted him to ask thousands of questions. It was beyond curiosity—Cas searched for complete understanding in _everything._

He wanted to know the world the way Dean knew it, and also the way the lady in line in front of them at the supermarket, and the way Charles Dickens had known it. He didn't just want to understand—he wanted to see it from everyone's perspective.

It was so beautiful, so fascinating, so…

Something.

Cas was something, and Dean didn't know how to say it. He didn't know how to sum it up, because all those intricacies could not be contained within the infinite combinations of these 26 letters.

People saw Castiel and assumed he was what he looked like—a nerd, a loner.

But Cas was never meant to be a loner—he was meant for everyone. Not a people person so much as a person who needed to know people, and Dean knew there was a difference.

This thing with Cas was not like the flings he'd had—plenty of one-night-stands, and week-long things, and that one relationship that lasted for a year with Lisa Braeden that he'd thought was love but now knew was not. And if it had been, it was a dulled, vague, through-the-looking-glass sort of love, distant and partial—he was in love with the safety she offered him, perhaps, or the steadiness.

But Dean didn't love Cas for part of him or some of him or something he offered. He didn't crave safety from him, because it wasn't safe. It wasn't steady. It was wild and crazy and dangerous, and sometimes it teetered between brilliance and terror, and if he had any self-preservation at all, he would have run as far from Castiel Novak as he could.

But he didn't love Cas for pieces, halves and thirds and quarters, and he didn't love him for the relationship.

He didn't love him _for _anything.

He just loved him and loved him and loved him, and that was such a rare thing that he didn't quite know what to do with it, like he'd been told the answer to the universe and was stuck wondering what the question was.

Cas was practically his whole life now…but Cas was so vast, a galaxy of his own, and it was _enough._

Of course, he didn't plan on Cas being it, forever. Friends would be nice, and maybe a hobby, but for now?

Cas was all he needed. Cas was going to be all he needed forever.

So he smiled, even though there were tears on his cheeks for some reason—his life was quickly turning into a soap opera, and that was _not _what he wanted. What was it he'd always said to Sammy? No chick-flick moments.

He rubbed the tears from his face and smiled again.

Then he started up the Impala and pulled out of the parking lot.

* * *

><p>Cas yawned and glanced at the clock—it was half past 10.<p>

Half past 10 and…where was Dean?

"Dammit," he whispered.

_Oh, God._

_God, no. No, no, no. Please no._

He leapt from the couch, checking the home phone, checking his cell phone.

His fingers flew over the buttons, and he listened to it ring, "Hello? Hello?"

It kept ringing, and then, "Hey, this is Dean. I'm not answering the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone."

Cas let out a long, shuddering breath, "_No._"

He retyped the number.

"Hey, this is Dean—"

"No."

CALL BACK: DEAN WINCHESTER

**ring. ring.**

"Hey, this is Dean—"

"_NO."_

CALL BACK: DEAN WINCHESTER

**ring. ring. **

"Hey, this i—"

"_NO!"_

He threw the phone, and it bounced against the carpet.

For the first time in years, he dropped to his knees to pray.

"God—I. I don't know if you're listening, or if—" he stopped to let out a sob, "If you exist, or if you c-cc-care about me," he was blubbering, and he couldn't stop, and he just wanted—_needed_—Dean to come home, "Just let him be okay. Just—just make him be okay. _Dammit._ This is all my fault—why is it always my fault—_damn. It._"

He let out a low whine, a hiccupping, animal sound. He rolled forward on his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground and sobbing.

Cas opened his eyes and stared at the weave of the carpet—it looked brown up close, not red. They needed to vacuum soon—Cas was always busy with schoolwork and Dean was just plain lazy.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, the phone laying across from him. He just knew that he stayed there until he heard the door opening.

* * *

><p>It was a wreck.<p>

It looked like the side table had been tipped over, and the house phone was dangling from the wall, and Cas's cellphone was lying on the floor. Textbooks and papers were thrown everywhere.

And then he saw Cas, collapsed amidst the mess.

"Cas?" he whispered.

It was nothing like they showed in the movies, everything in slow motion. It happened too quickly for him to realize what had happened, or how he had ended up there, next to Cas's body.

"Dean?"

"Oh, God," he whispered, "Oh, God, baby. Thank God. Thank God you're okay."

Dean wrapped his arms around Cas's prone body, pulling him close.

Cas wrapped around him, burrowing his face into Dean's chest, breathing him in. He let out a sob into Dean's shoulder.

"Cas, what happened. Baby, you gotta look at me. You gotta tell me what's going on."

"I—I looked up and it was...it was…God, Dean. Thank God. You're okay and—I thought you were hurt or…or worse."

"I'm so sorry, Cas. I am _so sorry. _I love you. Dammit, I'm so—I'm okay Cas. We're okay."

They were okay.


	10. Date Night

**Author's Note: ****This chapter is mostly just cute Destiel moments and also the introduction of a Charlie/Jo relationship (I am all about that ship) but I'm sorry if this chapter doesn't meet standards set by the chapter before it. I promise there will be more coming soon-I'm trying to update at least once a week, but next week is really busy, so we'll see. Thanks! (Also I love reviews so if you can leave one that would be awesome)**

"Where were you?"

"I was at a _bookstore. _I wanted…I wanted to get you a present. A congratulations, for when you kick those exams in the ass."

"I haven't even taken them yet. I also don't believe exams have asses, Dean."

"Their metaphorical asses. Their personified, anthropomorphized asses."

Cas tilted his head to look at him, "Wow. Those are big words, Dean. Sure you can handle them?"

"Hey! I paid attention in English class."

Cas pushed himself up onto his elbow, facing Dean on the bed, "Is that so?"

Dean grinned tickling Cas's sides, "Yeah," he said over the giggles, "It is."

"Stop it!" Cas laughed, rolling away from him. Dean scooched after him in pursuit, the blankets tangling over their legs.

Cas grabbed a pillow and smacked Dean over the head with it until he stopped.

They laid there for a while, side by side, staring at the ceiling.

"Dean?" Cas whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want this—us—to end. Ever."

"Are you proposing to me, Castiel Novak?"

"Not in so many words. Just…I just don't want this to ever be over. I don't want you and I to be something to look back on, sometime in the future, and say 'I remember when'. It's…I want us…I want to be looking back with you, saying 'Do you remember when'. You know?"

"Yeah, Cas. I'd like that."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are we whispering?"

* * *

><p>Cas kicked his exams in the ass (their metaphorical, personified, anthropomorphized ass), and Dean took him out to celebrate.<p>

He tugged nervously at his color, leaning to whisper in Dean's ear, "Am I—are we—overdressed?"

Dean glanced at him, looking over his suit and trench coat.

"You look perfect, Cas. So perfect."

Castiel sucked in a breath, catching the flash of Dean's eyes. It seemed so strange, something official like a _date._

"I don't think we can really afford to eat anywhere that is fancy enough to require such attire."

"Will you _relax? _Please?"

Cas nodded, forcing a smile onto his face, "Thank you again."

"And stop thanking me, too. Jesus. I _love you, _Castiel. It is my sincere pleasure to burn 60 bucks on a nice dinner for my genius boyfriend."

Cas sighed, sitting back in his seat. Dean maneuvered the Impala through the crowded downtown streets, parking next to the sidewalk. He jumped from his seat and ran around the car before Cas could open it, bowing as he pulled the Impala's door open.

Cas blushed, but went along with it, "Thank you, my good sir."

"Thank _you, _my good sir."

Dean held his hand, leading him into a high-end restaurant off the street. Cas pulled anxiously at his hand, trying to remove it, but Dean held on tight.

"Dean," he whispered, "They are going to see us. _Everyone _is going to see us."

"And?"

Cas stared up at him with huge eyes, "And they'll—they'll—"

"They'll judge us? So what? Who gives a fuck about what a couple small minded douchebags have to say about us?"

They walked in, and Dean smiled proudly when the waitress eyed them uncertainly.

"Table for two, please."

She smiled, "Table for two, then."

"See," Dean whispered, "She doesn't care."

"People at the other tables are staring."

"They're probably just staring at us because you're so gorgeous, Cas."

She seated them in a back corner, flashing a knowing smile before lighting the candle on the table.

Cas fidgeted with his tie, and Dean laughed quietly, reaching over the table to fix it for him. He flipped it over, fiddling with the knot, and then laid his hand on Cas's cheek, running a thumb over his cheekbone.

The waitress returned, and Cas jerked away. She smiled, "Oh, don't mind me. You two love birds are adorable."

Cas glanced at her name tag, "Look, Charlie, it's not—"

She grinned, "Seriously, dude, don't sweat it. My girlfriend gets all embarrassed whenever we go out, too. It's not a big deal. If any of the customers start giving you trouble, let me know."

They stared at her for a moment, and she tapped her pen against her lip, "So, what would you guys like to drink?"

* * *

><p>Charlie tipped back another shot, laughing, "Truth or Dare? You played Truth or Dare? God, I thought only twelve-year-old girls played that."<p>

Dean swirled his drink and tipped it back, shrugging, "We were drunk."

"You're drunk _now_, Dean," Cas laughed. The place was technically closed, but over the course of dinner they'd made friends with Charlie and she'd let them stay after closing hours and drink at the bar.

"So you guys had this whole sexual-tension crap going on for months, and then one night you get drunk and profess your undying love for each other?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"So do you guys have like a song, or something?"

Dean shook his head, glancing at Cas, "I don't think so. Cas? We have a song?"

Cas blushed, "I don't know. I heard a song on the radio in the car, when I was with you, early on. I don't know what it was called."

"Can you sing it?" Charlie asked.

"I don't…I don't really sing."

"Come on!"

"No."

Dean turned and gave him puppy dog eyes, sticking out his lower lip, "_Please, _Cas?"

He rolled his eyes, clearing his throat, "If the sun refused to shine," he paused nervously, and then continued, a little off-tune, "I would still be loving you, when mountains crumble to the sea, there'll still be you and me."

Charlie shook her head, laughing, "You guys are _too cute._"

Dean smiled, "Thank You by Led Zeppelin. That's amazing, Cas. We have a _song._"

"Too fucking cute."

"So what about you, Charlie? You and your girlfriend?"

Charlie sat down on a bar stool and poured another drink, "She's _gorgeous. _Blond and beautiful and tough as nails—shit, she can beat me in any drinking game you choose, which ain't easy. And she's smart, too. But she lives way too far from here—I mean, I had two amazing weeks with her while she was in town, visiting some friend that was in the hospital. She came in here to drink, to get her mind off it all, and we talked and fell in love and shit. And then she had to go back to middle of nowhere Kansas, and I'm stuck here, and—"

Dean and Cas exchanged a glance, and then looked back at her.

"Jo?"


	11. Sorry

"Jo is coming to visit this weekend!" Cas yelled.

Dean called back over the sound of the shower running, "Awesome! Think she'll have the guts to tell us about Charlie while she's here?"

"Perhaps."

The shower cut off, and Dean wandered out with a towel wrapped around his waist, "Either way, it'll be nice to see her. I haven't seen anyone but you and Charlie and the guys at the garage for too long."

Cas looked up, "Yeah, about that."

Dean stood behind him, dropping a kiss on his head, "What about what?"

"You need to get out more."

"Mmmm," Dean murmured, dropping kisses down Cas's cheek. He wrapped his arms around Cas from behind, pulling him close.

"Seriously, Dean. You go to work and then come straight home. I worry about you."

Dean nipped at the bottom of Cas's ear and didn't say anything.

Cas pulled away slightly, "Are you listening to me?"

"You," he pressed another kiss against Cas's skin, "Talk,"—another kiss—"too much."

Cas carefully extracted himself from Dean's arms and turned to face him. He stared at the floor and stumbled through the sentence word by word, "Dean. Listen, please. I worry—"

Dean ran a thumb over Cas's chin, "Why won't you look at me?"

"It's hard to be angry at me when you're so beautiful."

Dean laughed, and it took Cas's breath away. Still, still, after so many years: it took his breath away.

"I don't need anyone else, Cas. Don't worry about me. I have you and Charlie and Jo and Benny and Sammy and Bobby and what else do I need?"

Cas sighed, "Fun, Dean. Friends. Hobbies. I don't know what you need, I just feel like…"

"Like what?"

"Like you threw away your life to be with me. Like you used to…I don't know…_do _things. Go to parties or something. And now it's just…me."

"Cas, I _love _you. Don't you get that?"

Cas sighed, "_Yes, _I get that. But you need to do more than just love me. One person is not a _life._"

"I love you, and Sammy, and everyone else, and I love the Impala and working at the garage and I love watching the sun come up and I love sitting on the couch watching TV with your head in my lap. It's a life, Cas."

Cas sighed again, finally looking up at Dean's face. His green eyes were sincere, now, not playful like they had been earlier. His hair was wet and spiked, and he had a deep, instinctual urge to reach up and sweep it back like it normally was.

"And," Dean continued, "I could say the same for _you. _You have school and homework and me. Is that not a life?"

"No, not really."

Dean frowned, "Do you not like this? Our home and—"

"I _love _our life and our home and all of it. But it isn't really a life, for me. It's school and homework and you, and it's a beautiful in between. But it's not a life, not like the lives everyone else has. They do more than go here to there and back again. I just…I've never _had _a life like that, so why does it matter? But you _have. _You lived, once upon a time. I guess I just worry that I've dragged you into this limbo that is my life."

"_Cas. _This is a life. It's the life I want. And whether you believe it or not, you have a life, too. It's all life. It feels like limbo, but it's not. We've been here for, what—8, 9 months?—and I know it isn't long, but so much has happened. This is life. Sometimes it's slow and tedious, but this is a life. I promise you."

Cas nodded, "Okay."

"Why do we always have such heavy conversations, Cas? Too many chick-flic moments, if you ask me."

Cas rolled his eyes and poked Dean in the ribs, "Oh, shut up. I know you cried when Charlie dragged us to see The Fault in Our Stars. Talk about a chick-flic moment."

Dean's jaw dropped, "I did _not._"

"Did _too._"

Cas tickled him, and Dean flailed, giggling, grabbing a pillow and fending Cas off.

"Did _not._"

"Did _too._"

"Totally did not."

They tripped on the edge of the rug and barely missed the coffee table when they fell, landing on top of each other on the ground.

Cas smiled up at Dean, "Did too."

* * *

><p>Jo swept in, a duffel bag in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. She dropped the grocery bag on the counter and then hugged Dean and Cas.<p>

"I still cannot believe you made me go grocery shopping for you on my way here, asshole," she said.

Dean laughed, "It was on your way."

"_Asshole,_" she grinned, "I missed you. The Roadhouse is lonely without my two favorite regulars."

Cas smiled softly and started putting the groceries away, allowing her and Dean to catch up.

Jo leaned against the back of the couch and crossed her eyes, "So, what've you been doing recently?"

"Cas," Dean waggled his eyebrows at her, and she made a face at him.

"_Eww. _TMI, man. I don't wanna know about your gay sex."

"You asked."

Jo shook her head, smacking him in the shoulder, "That was _not _what I meant and you know it."

Dean laughed, "Okay, fine. Not much, I guess. Work, home, you know how it goes. What about you?"

"I've been working at the Roadhouse more and more. It's no fun without you there. I've got no one to get drunk and blow shit up with."

"Oh _yeah. _Remember the prank we pulled, with the fireworks? _Damn, _that was a good one."

"Don't know if I remember it. I remember a lot of whiskey, though."

"We were crazy kids."

"_Were? _I'd still be a crazy kid if you hadn't moved out here to Liberal-Land. How do you deal with 'em all? I swear to God, if I see another Coexist bumper sticker, I will be forced to do something drastic."

Dean rolled his eyes, "You get used to it. And you don't need me there to be a crazy kid, Jo. I seem to remember you getting to enough trouble on your own."

"It's not as much _fun _without a partner in crime, though!"

Cas watched them talk from the kitchen, and he smiled to himself. Seeing them talk, it was like seeing the other side of Dean, the one he showed to everyone else. Dean was sweeter here, gentler. He didn't act tough and callous with Cas anymore—he'd dropped that act. But it wasn't always an act. It was just…just another side of Dean. One he didn't get to see.

He loved all of Dean's sides.

Except for the one that got in fights and got drunk to drown everything out and the one that had nightmares so horrible that he cried so hard he threw up.

It was so strange, knowing that Dean. Knowing those moments. Having midnight conversations tucked between his ribs and written on his fingernails, memories of a broken man so different from the one everyone else knew. It was so strange, being the one who really _knew _him.

It was a beautiful sort of strange.

* * *

><p>Dean jerked awake. He opened his eyes and stared at the clock—4:00 am.<p>

"Cas?"

Cas jerked in his sleep again, whimpering.

Dean frowned—Cas didn't usually have nightmares.

Jo appeared in the doorway, "Dean? You alright?"

He glanced up at her, "Um, yeah. What are you doing up?"

"I thought I heard something. I thought…I thought maybe you'd started having nightmares again. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to seem nosy."

He closed his eyes—he remembered that. They'd get drunk and fall asleep at her house, and he'd have nightmares like he always did. Jo used to be the one he confided in, when he didn't want to scare Sammy with his problems.

Now that person was Cas—the person he told all his problems to. So strange, what being in a real relationship made you forget. He'd thought Cas was the only person he'd really opened up to, but he wasn't. There'd always been Jo.

Remembering that made him remember why he'd stopped confiding in Jo.

It all became too much for her—she started worrying about him too much. His problems had been too much for her.

So he told her that the nightmares had gone away.

_Right._

"We're fine," he whispered. She nodded, staring at him for a moment.

Cas flinched again, crying out in his sleep. She tilted her head, opened her mouth like she was going to say something. Dean stopped her with a cold stare, and she pressed her lips together and nodded once.

"Right."

She closed the door behind her.

Dean rolled over to face Cas again. He brushed a finger over Cas's lips, "Come on, baby. It's alright."

"Dean!" Cas cried in his sleep, "I'm so—"

He flinched again, whimpered, "Sorry."

Dean stared at him, mouth hanging open. It was too familiar.

"_Cas. _Wake up, sweetheart."

His eyes flashed open, and they met Dean's.

They stared at each other in silence for one heartbeat, two. Then Cas smiled, "Are you alright, Dean? Did you have a nightmare?"

Dean forced a smile, "No. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

_No, I'm not sure. _

"Yeah."

_Why do you care so much, Cas? Why did Jo care so much? Why does everyone decide that taking care of me is more important than taking care of themselves?_

"Did I wake you up?"

_Yes, you did. With your nightmares…nightmares about __**me. **__But how many times have you had nightmares and not woken me up? How often do you deal with your worries on your own?_

"No, Cas. I think it was a sound outside."

_I already know how often I wake you up with my problems._

"Okay, Dean. Go back to sleep."

_How much of your love is about protecting me?_

"Sweet dreams, Cas."

_I love you, Cas._

Moments pass. Dean is so close to being asleep.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

_Why are you always so sorry? Why does everyone say they're sorry?_

_What are you sorry for?_

_You have nothing to be sorry for._

"I'm sorry, too, Cas."


	12. Hero

1 ½ Years Ago

Dean rolled out from under a car and stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

"This one is done," he called.

Garth, a scrawny kid who worked part time as an accountant and bookkeeper for the garage, appeared in the doorway of the office.

"Hey, Dean-o!"

Dean raised an eyebrow, "Yeah?"

"I heard about this job opening—it's this private detective gig. Magnum P.I. shit, ya know? It sounded right up your alley."

"How is that _right up my alley?_" Dean snorted, "What in the _hell _makes you think I'd make a good private detective?"

"Dunno. You just got that _feel _about you. Military man, 'cept you're not in the military."

"You make absolutely _no sense, _Garth."

The scrawny boy shrugged, "Whatever. Just remember it."

Dean moved on to the next car, rolling his eyes over his shoulder at Garth.

_You wanted to be a policeman, Dean. Once upon a time. Just like you wanted to be a soldier and a fireman and…_

He'd just wanted to be someone's hero.

He smiled, remembering.

_"Dean! Dean!"_

_He turned, catching a 5-year-old Sam in his arms._

_"Yeah, Sammy?"_

_"Halloween is __**next week!**__"_

_"So?"_

_"We don't have __**costumes, **__Dean!"_

_He'd smiled—he had a Superman costume hidden under his bed. Just Sam's size, too._

_"Don't worry about it. We're going as superheroes, right? Like last year?"_

_"I don't want to be Spiderman again. He's __**lame. **__I wanna be a __**real **__hero."_

_Dean thought about it—he'd meant the costume to be a surprise. But Sammy was so little, and worried, and he was making that puppy face._

_"I have a present for you, Sammy."_

_"Really?!"_

_"One second."_

_He ran to the bed he and Sammy shared on the other side of the motel room and dug a paper bag out of his duffel bag._

_"Here ya go, Sam. A Halloween costume, just for you."_

_"SUPERMAN! __**Yes.**__"_

_Sammy had smiled, and then a moment later glanced away. He frowned briefly, then looked back at Dean and smiled again, this time mischievously._

_On Halloween night, Dean had searched for his Batman costume for almost half an hour before going to the bathroom door of their motel room. He knocked, and Sammy called out._

_"Not done, Dean."_

_"Sammy, I'm sorry. I can't find my costume. I don't know…Sammy? What's that sound?"_

_The door opened a crack, and Sam peeked out, "Ummm…"_

_Dean shoved the door open, and Sam stumbled back, cringing, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dean, but—"_

_"Are you trying to flush my costume __**down the toilet?**__"_

_"I didn't want you to be Batman."_

_"Why, Sammy?"_

_"You don't need the costume. __**You're **__a superhero, Dean!"_

_Dean didn't understand why he was crying, but he pretended he wasn't._

"Hey, Sammy."

"It's _Sam _now. Sammy is a chubby six-year-old."

"Whatever, Sammy."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam sighed, "Why are you calling?"

Dean chuckled, "What? Do you not have time to talk to your big bro?"

"That isn't what I meant. You just haven't called in forever, I was wondering."

"I know. I'm sorry. I should call more often. We should get together sometime. You could come up here, or Cas and I could travel down there. Either."

"Yeah. That would be great."

"Sammy…"

"Dean? You alright?"

"Do you remember when you were really little, and you called me Bean?"

"Um…no. I heard about it. Dean? Are you okay? You sound…sad."

"Just melancholy. I'm sorry to bother you. Cas is at class and the garage is closed and I have nothing to do. I was…I found some old photos. I didn't know Dad kept all those Polaroids—you know, when I was experimenting with my first camera?"

"I remember. You loved that camera. You took pictures of everything."

"There's also a card you wrote me when you were really little. It says Bean. It just…it reminded me."

"You need a hobby."

"Believe it or not, I have a hobby."

"And that is?"

"Can't go giving away all my secrets, can I?"

"What is it, Dean?"

"Not telling you."

"Scrapbooking? Quilting?"

"Shut up, bitch."

"You're gay now, right? Are you going to go into fashion design?"

"_God. _Why do I bother. And that's stereotyping, by the way."

"Get over yourself."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."


	13. When I Say Happy, You Say Birthday

**Author's Note: **

**I realize that the chapters are getting shorter-there's a reason for that. And it isn't because we're nearing the end. I know it's all been a big countdown (4 Years Ago, 3 1/2 Years ago, etc.) but please remember that NOW ISN'T NECESSARILY THE END. Thank you.**

1 Year Ago

"Hey, babe. Wake uuuup."

Cas cracked open his eyes and squinted at him, groaning, "_Dean. _It's like 6 am."

"It's 9:30."

"Piss off."

"Aw, come on. Don't make me do this."

"_Dean._"

"I'm going to!"

"You wouldn't _dare._"

"1…2…_3._"

Cas shrieked as a glass of ice water splashed across his face, and he jerked upright, turning to glare at his boyfriend.

"_Dean!"_

Dean put his hands up, backing away, "Okay, yeah, I realize that took it a bit far—"

"You are _asking _for it!"

"Come on, sweetheart, it was a joke."

Cas leapt forward, hands outstretched, tickling Dean's ribs and neck.

"Why," Dean smacked his hands away, laughing, "Why do you always end up tickling me?"

"Perhaps because you're so incredibly ticklish."

Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed Cas's hand, leading him towards the kitchen.

"What's this?" Cas asked, surprised.

"Your birthday breakfast, obviously. What, did you think I would forget?"

Cas grinned and sat at the dining room table, where a place had already been made for him. All of his textbooks had been moved and where neatly stacked on the coffee table. A cup of coffee (black, of course) sat beside a huge plate.

"Heart shaped pancakes? That's a little cutesy, even for you."

Dean blushed and glanced away, "I have no clue what you're talking about. The pancakes did that of their own accord."

"_Of their own accord? _Watch it now, you're starting to speak like an educated human being now, Dean."

"Maybe I read some of your books while you're at class and I'm here. Whatever."

Cas smiled and leaned across the table to kiss Dean and then dug into his food. Dean always overestimated how much food Cas was capable of consuming, and, as usual, he ended up scooping nearly half of it onto Dean's plate.

When they finished, they sat there for a moment. Dean picked up the newspaper and flipped through the news, spending a few moments to glance at the sports section before flipping to the crossword. He tapped a pencil against his bottom lip, studying it, occasionally writing down a word.

"Hey, what's a six letter word for—" he paused, catching Cas's eyes when he glanced up. This prompted a lopsided grin from him, "What are you looking at?"

Cas raised his coffee mug to his lips, smiling over the top of it, "Only the most beautiful man on the entire planet."

"Mmmm, I beg to differ, darling. For I cannot be the most beautiful man if that title is held by none other than my fantastic boyfriend."

"_Me?_"

"No, I was talking about my _other _fantastic boyfriend," Dean replied, rolling his eyes, "Yes, _you._"

"We are flirting, aren't we?" Cas asked.

Dean laughed, "Yeah, Cas. We're flirting."

"We skipped that part of our relationship, I think. The flirting part."

"We've got time to make up for it."

* * *

><p>"I really wish you hadn't done this, Dean."<p>

"I'm really glad I did."

"Thank you for telling me beforehand, at least. Even if it was last minute."

"Remember, pretend you're shocked. _Happy _and shocked."

* * *

><p>"<em>SURPRISE!<em>"

Cas grinned, forcing himself to laugh as the lights flipped on and everyone jumped up. Confetti exploded into the air from some dollar-store popper, and Cas flinched at the sound of it.

Dean placed a hand on his back, and he leaned into the touch. He wasn't overly fond of surprises.

_This is a party, Castiel. Pretend you're having fun._

It sounded too much like something his mother used to say at social conventions, ones where he and his adopted siblings were the only kids there, and all of the adults talked in high, tinkling voices and looked down at them like they were prey.

_No. Not Castiel. __**Cas. **__You're Cas now, and you're having fun with your friends._

"Happy Birthday!" Jo said, wrapping an arm around him in a half-hug. They were in the restaurant Charlie worked out, which they'd rented out just for Cas. Dean wasn't supposed to have told him, he was supposed to have come under the impression that it was going to be a private birthday dinner.

But Dean knew him too well for that, knew how he might react.

He was grateful for that, at least. A little more advance notification would've been nice, though.

"Hi, Jo," he finally said, "I'm…I'm glad you came. All the way from Kansas, just for little old me?"

"Well," she smiled, glancing at Charlie, "Not _just _for you. I…I've been considering moving out here for a while, you know, to be with her, and near you guys. But I can't bear to leave the Roadhouse…but I did come out here to visit. Visiting is nice."

The other guests crowded forward, all of them clamoring for his attention, and he had the distinct urge to curl into a ball until they left him alone.

He flashed back to too many childhood memories of hiding in the corner, hands over his ears, rocking back and forth and trying to ignore his older brother's screaming fights. Michael and Luke…it had never been an easy.

_These are your friends, and they love you. They want to wish you well and say hello, not scream at you or call you inferior. They love you._

Cas smiled at each of them, and once they dispersed somewhat, it was easier to deal with. There weren't _that _many people; neither he nor Dean had that many people they considered _friends._

There were 9 people, 11 including him and Dean, and it seemed manageable. He was surprised to see a few of them; he didn't know where Dean had gotten the contact information for his friends form college, Kevin and Alfie and Rachel and Hester. Charlie, Jo, and Sam were expected—Jess had come along as well. The last person, Garth, had only met Cas a few times, when he visited Dean at the garage. But he seemed like a nice person, and if Dean had invited him, Cas didn't mind.

He let himself relax, finally, and talk to people a bit—it was strange, seeing them all in one place. Alfie, who was always so quiet in the classroom, raucously joking with Sam, and Jess getting along with Charlie and Jo…

Cas smiled, then, to himself.

_These are the people who care about you. There may not be many of them, and at times it feels as though there are __**too many **__of them, but in the end…it does not matter how many people love me. It simply matters that they __**do.**_

"So, presents?" Dean asked.

Charlie gasped, "That's _insane. _Cake first. Always cake first."

"Ah," Dean said, "Right. _The cake._"

He disappeared into the backroom, reappearing with a tray holding a cake. It was chocolate, of course, for the two of them concurred that chocolate was, indeed, the answer to the universe. It was lined with rows and rows of candles: 22 of them, to be precise.

"You know what's coming now, don't you?" Sam said.

Cas turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, and then realized what he meant.

"No, guys, really—you don't have to. Please don't. Please—"

He was interrupted by a great chorus.

"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you…"

_These. These are the people who love me._


	14. Dance With Me

6 Months Ago

"Cas?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you wanna, I dunno, go out somewhere?"

"Busy."

* * *

><p>"Hey, Dean?"<p>

"Yep."

"Would you like to go out on a date, or something of that nature?"

"Sorry, babe. Tired."

* * *

><p>"Cas?"<p>

"I'm studying."

* * *

><p>"Dean? Are you asleep already?"<p>

"Dean?"

"Hello?"

"Oh well. Maybe tomorrow night, then."

* * *

><p>"Cas? You there?"<p>

"Dammit, look at the time. I overslept. You're already in class."

* * *

><p>"Dean?"<p>

"Yes?"

"There's a party, you know, that I heard about. Um. Somewhere. This kid in class was talking about a party, and I was invited, and I was wondering…"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to go?"

"A _party, _man? Have you ever been to a party in your life?"

"Oh. I guess…I guess you're right. It would be odd. I mean, I just wanted—I just want—I was just trying—I—I. Never mind."

"Don't give me that. Come on, babe. I didn't mean it. We can go to the party if you want to go to the party, alright? We'll go. It'll be fun."

"Fun."

* * *

><p>"What does one generally where to a party?"<p>

Dean affected a British accent, mocking him, "Well, sir, if you are inquiring over the attire worn by those attending a party of a more professional level, you might consider a suit and tie. If it is a bit more casual, of course, your ensemble will likely need to be altered to mesh with the atmosphere in which you will be partying."

"_Dean. _I need assistance. I do not know what, precisely, the average college student wears to a party."

"Dude. This is a _college party. _Half of them will be so drunk off their asses by the time we finally get there that you won't give a fuck about what they think of your clothes, so long as they don't puke on them."

"What should I _wear?_"

"Will you stop being such a teenage girl and throw on some clothes? No one cares what you wear, Cas, so long as you don't show up in a tux or something."

Dean tapped a finger against his chin, and then pointed it at Cas, "Or a kilt. No kilts. No one digs a guy in a skirt."

"I'm not considering wearing a _kilt, _Dean. _Help me._"

Dean gave him a pitying look and walked over to peer in Cas's side of their closet.

"You know, this would be a helluva lot easier if you owned anything besides white dress shirts, slacks, and that trench coat."

"I think I have some jeans?"

"Wear those. And a t-shirt. Just change _fast, _man."

* * *

><p>Dean dragged Cas up to the front stoop, rolling his eyes whenever Cas dug in his heels.<p>

"You're the one who wanted to come to this thing."

"That's because we're always too busy to do anything together. I thought—"

"_Shhh. _It will be fun."

"I could hear the music all the way back when we parked the car, Dean. How loud must it be _inside?_"

"Dunno. Let's find out.

* * *

><p>The little house was packed full of people. Many of them stood in groups, laughing and drinking copious amounts of beer. Couples were already starting to split off and take up empty rooms—the "getting drunk and hooking up" part of the party already seemed to be in full swing.<p>

Meg, one of Cas's fellow students, yelled across the room, but anything she said was lost in the music and chatter.

Dean nudged him, "Who's that? What's she saying?"

"That is Meg. She is rude and sarcastic and not entirely unlike you. She also calls me Clarence, for some inexplicable reason."

Dean laughed, leading him through the front hallway and towards the source of the music.

"_Where are we going?"_ Cas yelled in his ear.

"_Towards the music. And the beer!" _Dean yelled back, trying to make himself heard over the pounding beat.

They finally pushed into the living room, which was even more heavily occupied. People leaned against walls and sat at stools next to the kitchen counter, which had been converted into a makeshift bar. All the couches had been pushed off into the garage, leaving more room for people to dance.

Cas peeled his t-shirt up and off the skin of his back—it was hot in there, too hot. Too full. He felt claustrophobic. Why had he decided this was a good idea? There were people _everywhere._

The t-shirt wasn't even his—it was one of Dean's that had shrunk in the wash. It was black and had ACDC emblazoned across the front of it. He'd heard their music—after living with Dean for years, how could he _not _have heard their music—but had been briefly shunned when he equated it to a bunch of children banging pots and pans around in the kitchen and screaming nonsense at the top of their lungs.

Dean kept his hand firmly planted on Cas's elbow, leading him through the crowd. People seemed to draw towards Dean, circling him, trying to talk to him.

_He's magnetic that way. People just can't help but want to be near him._

A drunk girl stumbled up to him and tried to kiss him, but he shrugged her off and turned to laugh at Cas.

Cas just tried to disappear.

Dean leaned over and poked him in the spine, forcing him to straighten.

"What was that for?"

"Stop slouching. I know what you're doing—stop pretending like you're invisible."

"Maybe I want to be invisible."

"Cas, you can't make yourself invisible. You're the most electrifyingly _vivid _thing in this room. You just look like an electrifyingly vivid thing with bad posture."

Cas rolled his eyes, wanting to point out that there was no girl hanging over _him, _now was there?

Dean grabbed a beer from the cooler and took a swig, making a face afterwards.

"This stuff is _nasty_," he said, leaving it on the counter, "I forgot how cheap college kids are. This beer tastes like piss."

The people were too close, and there were too many of them, and it was too hot and too loud and too _everything._

Cas sat down heavily on one of the stools, turning to stare at the crowd of people dancing.

Dean stared at him for a moment and then leaned back against the counter, elbows holding him mostly upright.

"You know, Cas," he said, "If you don't like it—if you want to go, just tell me. We can leave whenever you want to."

"I am determined to have a good time."

"Determination doesn't create fun, babe. You look like you're going to pass out."

There were a few spots flickering at the edges of his vision, come to mention it. He tried to blink them away.

"You alright?"

"Too many _people,_" he whispered, "Too hot, too loud."

Dean looped an arm over Cas's shoulders and helped him up.

"Come on. Let's get outside."

* * *

><p>The backyard was surprisingly empty—the party didn't seem to be spilling outside quite yet. It was a bit cold to be outside, actually, so it made sense.<p>

Cas walked to the fence at the edge of the yard and sat with his back against it, staring up at the stars.

Dean dropped down next to him, looking up.

They sat like that in silence for a few moments—Cas counting how many constellations he could identify despite the light pollution, Dean just staring.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine, Dean. It was just too hot in there. I apologize. I just need to cool down for a moment, and then we can go back inside."

"We can leave, you know, if you want to."

"I just wanted to do _something _with you. A party seemed like a good idea."

"We should go to a movie sometime."

"Yeah."

Dean grabbed Cas's hand, twining their fingers together. He squeezed, once.

After a few more minutes, Dean stood, stretching.

"You feel up to going back inside? It's cold out here."

"What do people _do _at parties, precisely?"

"Besides get drunk and have sex? Dance, mostly. Do you want to dance, Cas?"

"I…"

Dean looked down at Cas, who was still seated on the ground, "Yes?"

"I don't know _how _to dance."

Cas looked up at him, and he smiled, "I suppose I'll just have to teach you, then."

* * *

><p>Cas stood facing him, holding his arms carefully away from his body. He stiffened when Dean touched him, grabbing his arm and repositioning it.<p>

"No, no. You don't want to be all stiff like that. Loosen up. _Come on. _Relax."

They were alone in the backyard, the music still pouring out and into the night.

"Now I want you to just _sway _with the music. Okay, good. Try not to look so much like you're rocking back and forth—_sway._ Better."

"This is _modern _dancing, right, Dean?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how to ballroom dance?"

Dean flushed enough that it was visible in the light of the crescent moon.

"Ellen—Jo's mom—gave us lessons. Sammy, Jo and I. All of us. Which fork to use, how to fold a napkin, how to ballroom dance. I don't know why she gave a shit about it, but it was important to her."

"I would like to learn how to ballroom dance."

"This isn't exactly ballroom dancing music."

"We don't have to dance to the music."

"Alright, so first—"

He was interrupted by the sound of sirens, which grew louder and louder. They stopped, and moments later they faintly heard an officer's voice, accompanied with the words "Noise Complaint".

Dean motioned for Cas to follow him, and they jumped the fence in the backyard and ran together back to the Impala.


	15. Yesterday

Yesterday

Dean glanced up from his computer at the sound of his cellphone ringing. He reached over to the table and picked it up, answering.

"Hello?" he said.

"Am I speaking to Dean Winchester?" The voice on the other end of the line asked. It was masculine and deep, with an edge to it.

"Yes. Who ar—"

They interrupted him, saying, "Your reputation precedes you."

It was sarcastic, their voice dry, practically cracking—it was not a compliment.

"Who are you?"

"Are you currently in the same general vicinity as Castiel?"

Dean glanced over to where Cas was sitting, across the room at their table.

"What does it matter to you? Who _are _you?"

"If you are currently in the same general vicinity as he is, I would like to kindly request for you to move to a location where he will be unable to hear this conversation."

Cas glanced up from his homework and tipped his head curiously, "Who are you talking to, Dean?"

He forced a smile, "It's just Garth. He called from an Unknown Number and wouldn't tell me who he was—you know how he is. Hang on, I need to take this. Why don't you start dinner?"

"I thought we were going out for dinner?"

Dean laughed, trying to ignore the uneasiness in his gut, "Oh, right. I forgot. Be right back."

* * *

><p>He pushed through the door and onto the roof, the wind whipping the ends of his t-shirt around, causing goose bumps to spring up on his arms.<p>

It looked like rain—smelled like rain, too. The air was heavy, pressing down on him, pushing his shoulders together so hard he thought they might splinter.

Dean stared down at his phone, the number.

"Are you still there, Mr. Winchester?"

He swallowed and put it back to his ear, "Yeah, I'm here. Who the fuck are you and what do you want?"

"Quite blunt, aren't you? Let's get right to the point, then, shall we? I am Michael, Castiel's brother, and I would like you to stop seeing him immediately."

* * *

><p>"What the <em>fuck? <em>Why do you think I'd listen to _you? _You fucking monsters abused him and hurt him and made him hate himself, you _beat _him—listen to me, douchebag, you are _not _the one calling the shots here, and I don't know who you think you are but if you think you can—"

"I think I am the man who will kill your little brother—Samuel—if you do not leave Castiel immediately. And you cannot let him know that I have contacted you—you will tell him that you do not love him. You will break his heart."

Dean blinked, sucking in a deep breath, and another. He dropped to his knees, there on the roof, closing his eyes to keep the tears from spilling out.

How could this be happening? _Why _was this happening?

"Who _are _you," he whispered, "Are you guys…are you like the Mafia? And why…why…"

"Mr. Winchester, please get yourself together. Listen to me _very carefully. _This is what you are going to do: You are going to wait until Castiel is no longer in your place of residence. You will pack your things and leave him a brief letter detailing that you no longer care for him, or that you have found someone else—I don't really care what you say, so long as his heart ends up broken. Then, I want you to move as far away from here as possible. Never contact my brother again. Do not tell him anything about me."

"And if I don't do this you'll…kill my _brother?_"

"Precisely. I'm glad you understand the Terms & Conditions of our arrangement."

Dean bowed his head, letting out a broken sob. In a small, small voice, he whispered, "Why?"

"_Why? _I thought that would be quite obvious, Mr. Winchester. While you may believe I do not care for my brother, I assure you everything I did to him was for his benefit. I was molding him into a better person."

"You were _ruining _him."

"I was _saving _him, which is exactly what I am attempting to do now. Homosexuality is a sin—man shall not lie with man, Mr. Winchester. I am saving my brother from damnation."

"I don't…I don't want to hurt him."

"You have to hurt him. If his heart is not broken, he may fall in love with another man, and I do not want to have this conversation ever again. He cares for you, but in time he will understand that this emotion he calls love is misguided."

"And you would kill my brother over this? Isn't that a sin, too?"

"I am already damned. That is not a concern for me—I am the one who does the killing in our family. I am the sinner, to make room for the saints. That is how our family _works, _Mr. Winchester. One person per generation is chosen to take on the sins of our business, so that the rest may ascend to heaven. Castiel is...he is foolish, and he sees love where there isn't any."

"Fuck you, Michael. Fuck you and your whole Mafia family."

"Goodbye, Mr. Winchester. It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

"_Fuck you._"

"You have 24 hours to remove yourself from my brother's life."


	16. Here

Today

_Darling,_

_They all end the same, don't they? Love stories. They end just like ours has._

_It was beautiful while it lasted, though, wasn't it? The most beautiful of them all, at least the way I see it. Do you think it was beautiful, darling?_

_We should have known we would end up here. Everyone always ends up here. There's no such things as happy endings. No one lives Happily Ever After, because one day Ever After has to end._

_I suppose our Happily Ever After has ended, then? Yes._

_God, I wish it could've lasted longer._

_But all love stories are the same, really. Not just in where they end but in where they start, where they go, where they take us. Nothing is ever different in this strange world of hours. Just the same thing coming 'round again._

_A guy walks into a bar, right? Sees a pretty girl. Sits down, buys her a beer. Maybe gets her number, maybe takes her home, does it matter? The world rushes around them for a while, but they're stationary, caught up in the freefall of new love. They're dropping from the heavens and just trying to hold on to each other, while the world carries on around them._

_Then it settles. Not all at once, like hitting the ground. But gradually the falling levels out, and it's flying, they're flying now. Soaring. Happily Ever Afters crowd in on all sides and it's beautiful, you know, the flying bit. It's all so beautiful._

_They stick together and fly with the other birds, not understanding how temporary it all is, not seeing that they're just gliding to a stop, and eventually they'll hit the ground and their happy ending will be over._

_We all end up here. Everyone does._

_Dammit, Cas, and somehow we thought we were special._

_Say goodbye to our Happily Ever After, sweetheart._

_I'll miss you. Just know that none of this is your fault—there's nothing we could've done differently._

_We will always end up_

_Here._

_Love,_

_Dean_

Dean leans back in his chair and reads it again—it's good. It's poetic and beautiful, and it's heartbreaking but not too much, and it's good. But there's no explanation. No _why. _

He has to give Cas a 'why'.

It seems so perfect, this life of theirs. Too perfect to throw away.

_Why is this happening to me?_

He yanks at his hair again, pulling on the ends of it, yanking at it hard enough that he can feel the pain all across his scalp.

_Why?_

Dean crumples the letter in one hand, raising his arm to toss it into the trash can. But then he pauses.

He opens it back up and spreads it out, reading it again. He swallows hard and then slides it into the top of the duffel bag sitting at the floor at his feet.

He'd started packing as soon as Cas had left for class. It had been so painful, the way every piece of clothing smelled a little like Cas's. It tore at him, the thought of Cas's face when he read those words, when he saw the empty closet, when he looked around and noticed that all of Dean's belongings had been cleared from the apartment.

When he realized he was alone.

_What if this drives him back to suicide?_

No. Dean couldn't let himself think like that—he'd lose his nerve, and then Cas's psychotic brother would kill Sammy.

_Anything for Sammy._

How had he ended up here?

How had everything gone to hell so quickly?

What the fuck was happening?

Dean shrugs off the memories of packing—God, how it had hurt.

He'd taken one of Cas's ties—the blue one. He hadn't been able to resist.

He takes a shaky breath and grabs a clean sheet of paper. He starts again.

_Dear Cas,_

_This is goodbye. I'm sorry, darling. I know this is unexpected…I just…_

_Dammit, Cas, __I love you._

Dean drops his pen and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

He grabs another sheet of paper.

_Dear Cas,_

_Goodbye. I'm sorry I couldn't do this in person. I wanted to, believe me, but I don't…I didn't want to see you cry. I'm a coward, Cas. I'm a coward and a horrible person, and I know that, and I'm sorry. I truly am._

_But this has to be goodbye. I...I don't love you, Cas. The harder I try to return your affection, the more obvious it is that I just __**can't. **__I don't feel the same way about you as you do me. I wish I did, really. I wish I loved you._

_But the truth is, I don't. And I can't pretend anymore._

_-Dean_

"DAMMIT!" Dean screams. He slams his fist against the table, gasping for air, gasping for something to help him. A sob escapes his lips, and he presses them together to try and keep it all inside. Tears stream down his face, and he buries his head in his hands, trying to hold himself together.

He's falling apart.

_How am I supposed to do this?_

_How am I supposed to break his heart?_

But yesterday, and Michael's voice, and how serious he'd seemed—he really would kill Sammy if Dean didn't do this. He was sure of it. Michael had seemed…he hadn't sounded like he was bluffing.

_How?_

How could he do this? How could he…

He had to stop thinking about the look on Cas's face. About just how broken his heart would be.

_Dear Cas,_

_I don't know how to do this._

_I don't know how to say goodbye—I don't know how to explain why I can't stay here anymore. I know you want to know why I had to leave, and I wish…I wish I knew, Cas._

_Baby, please don't hate me for this. Please try not to hate me for this._

_I am so sorry, darling._

_Why is this so damn hard? I know I have to leave you—I can't stay. I know I can't stay. So why is leaving so damn difficult?_

_You want to know why, and I want to know why. I wish I could tell you._

_I'm leaving because I don't deserve your love, and because I can't return it, and because I'm just going to break you. Hurt you._

_It's better for me to go now._

_I know it hurts, baby, and I'm sorry about that. I should've left earlier, back when it wouldn't hurt so much._

_We always knew it would come to this, didn't we? We were never cut out for a happy ending, you and I. But I'm just trying to stop us from ending in a tragedy._

_Try not to see this as a tragedy._

_See it as a compromise between the two—we were never going to make it to Happily Ever After. This is the best I could do. This is the only way I know how to make it hurt less than it would, eventually, if I stayed._

_Understand that this really is for __**you.**_

_We were always going to end up here, Cas. Everyone ends up here._

_At least here isn't so bad, right? This little ending of ours…it's better than it could be._

_Right?_

_Goodbye,_

_Dean_

_PS. Please don't try to find me. This is it—it's over, Cas. Don't try to make this hurt any more than it already does, for both of our sakes._


	17. The Aftermath

4 Hours Later

"Hey, this is Dean. I'm not answering the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone."

**Beep.**

"Dean? _Dean? _I'm so…I…goddammit…please, please just…just come home. We can work this out. _Dammit, _Dean, we can work this out. I swear to God, just please come back. I can…I don't know what I did wrong, but we can fix it. We can fix this, whatever this is. Just _come home._"

4 Hours, 5 Minutes Later

"Hey, this is Dean. I'm not answering the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone."

**Beep.**

"Dean, _please. _I love you—_I love you_—come back. This is our home. We…your letter…we can have a happy ending, Dean. Come home and we'll _make _a happy ending happen. _Dammit, _Dean, just come back."

5 Hours Later

"Hey, this is Dean. I'm not answering the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone."

**Beep.**

"I love you."

7 Hours Later

"Hey, this is Dean. I'm not answering the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone."

**Beep.**

"I tried to sleep but you're not there and I can't fall asleep and I think I'm drunk and I can't stop crying and I want you to come home and tell me it's okay and make everything okay and can't you just come home Dean please, I miss you, I love you and I love you and I love you and I keep calling just to hear your voice and I want to hear your voice and please come home."

3 Days Later

"Hello? Dean?"

"Sammy?"

Dean rolls over, the weak springs of the motel room bed squeaking under his weight. He groans, his headache exploding. Empty bottles litter the room, and a half-eaten cheeseburger sits on the table.

Cas had loved cheeseburgers.

_Loves, Dean. Loves. Just because the relationship is past tense doesn't mean he is._

"Yeah, Dean, it's me."

"It's too fucking early for phone calls, Sammy."

"It's noon, Dean. Are you alright? You don't sound too good."

"Shut up, bitch."

"Dean…"

That's the first thing to let him know that all is not well.

Sam didn't say "Jerk".

"Sammy? Do you need help?"

_Oh, God. No. Michael—did Michael do something? I did what he asked. Fuck._

"Sammy?! Please, please tell me you're okay. Are you okay?"

There's a moment of silence, and then Sam says, "Of course I'm fine, Dean. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

He feels his shoulders relax.

"Okay. Good. So why are you calling?"

"I was worried about _you, _Dean. And Cas. He called—he was absolutely _destroyed. _He doesn't understand why you left—_I _don't understand why you left. You and Cas…this is the happiest I have _ever _seen you. Ever. In our entire lives, Dean, you have never been as happy as you have been these past years with Cas. Why ruin that? Why give that up?"

"I…I can't talk about this, Sammy. Please, just…just leave it alone. This is my choice."

"Just help me understand _why _this is your choice. Why would you do that? Why throw away something so…so perfect?"

"Fuck off."

"Dean, _please. _You might not owe me an explanation, but you should at least call Cas. Explain this to him. Maybe try to come up with a different solution to whatever this problem is? We love you, Dean, and if you're going through something, we'll help you. But don't do this to Cas."

"Jesus, Sammy, it's none of your business anyways."

"I care about you, and I care about Cas, and right now I'm worried about both of you. Don't you love him, Dean? Don't you think you owe him at least some sort of explanation?"

"No."

"No, you don't love him?"

Dean stays silent, trying to press away the tears gathering in his eyes.

"Come on, Dean, say it. Can you honestly tell me that you don't love him? That this is what you want?"

He takes a shuddering breath, and the wave breaks inside his mind, the last straw falls on the camel's back, and he starts to cry.

Sam is quiet for a moment, and then whispers, "You still love him. I know you do."

"Yes," he breathes, "_Yes. _I love him. I love him _so damn much _and that's why I have to do this. Dammit, Sammy. I love him like crazy and I can't be near him. I can't do that. I don't deserve someone as amazing as him and he doesn't deserve someone as destructive as me and I can't do it anymore. _Dammit, _Sam, I just can't. I can't stay near him and know that one day I'll ruin him."

"You won't ruin him, Dean. You're _good _for him. Doing this? Leaving? _That _is what will ruin him."

"It's…it's better this way."

"You can't honestly believe that."

Dean closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the motel wall behind the bed.

"Please, Sammy," he whispers, "Please."

_This is all for you._

One Week Later

"Hello, this is Castiel. I am presently unable to reach the phone, which I imagine is quite obvious. Please leave a message after hearing the tone."

**Beep.**

"Castiel? This is Alfie. You need to come back to class—one more absence and the professors are going to start kicking you out of their classes. Please come back."

* * *

><p>Dean presses the button, closing his eyes and leaning back against the seat.<p>

**You have: 10 saved voice messages. To listen, click 1. To—**

He pushes 1, putting the phone to his ear.

It starts with the earliest message.

"Hello, Dean. This is Castiel. I haven't used cellphones many times before, but you gave me your number so I thought I would call you? I don't know what to say, really. Umm…I had a good time, at the movies. You held my hand and that was nice. I…this is all very new to me, Dean. The phone and the relationship and…not being, what did you call me? A hermit? I feel as though this message is perhaps lengthier than your typical voice mail would be. I, uh. I think I will be going now. Thank you, again. For everything."

There's a pause, and then the next starts playing.

"Hello, Dean. This is Castiel. I was wondering, perhaps, if you wanted to go and do something next Saturday? You see, it's my birthday, and while I have never really celebrated my birthday before, I think perhaps that is a tradition I would like to start. Just, you know. Us. There's not really anyone else. But…I don't know. Maybe we could…look at the stars again? It is a bit cold for stargazing, however. I feel as though I am rambling, so perhaps I should hang up? Just…call me back, please."

Dean smiles at that one. They _had _gone stargazing for Cas's birthday, but not before Dean had treated him to a five star dinner—burger and fries at the Roadhouse, of course. Cas had taught him the constellations, and he'd explained why he liked them so much. Something about how one star alone was unimpressive, but a whole sky full of them was breathtaking.

"Hey, Dean. It's Jo. Just wanted to say congrats on you and Cas getting together—like it wasn't obvious. Also, I was wondering if you wanted to go hang out some time. I never see you these days. So, call me. I'm saving up for a cell phone and then I can text you like a normal person in the 21st century."

"This is Sam. I just wanted to…I'm not really sure why I called, actually. It was nice seeing you again, after so long. Um. Bye?"

"Hey. This is Jo, by the way, calling from my new cell phone! But that news is totally unexciting compared to your announcement that you're _moving to California! _That's great, Dean. I mean, I'll miss you like crazy, but it'll be nice. Sam is going out there, too, right? Everything is happening so quickly."

"Hello, Dean. This is Cas. I just got out of my first class of the day—of ever, really. My first college class. It seems like such an accomplishment. If it weren't for you…if it weren't for you, Dean, I would still be sitting alone in that huge house in Lawrence, feeling sorry for myself. You saved me, Dean. I love you, and…thank you. Thank you so much, for everything."

Dean presses **End **before the next message can start playing—he already knows that the last 4 voice mails are the heartbroken, tearstained ones that Cas had left a week prior.

He'd listened to them, over and over again, while he cried and drank and tried to figure out why his life had gone to hell.

He will never listen to them again.

Now, he only wants to hear the old ones. The messages where Cas sounds hopeful and nervous and _in love, _not broken and falling apart.

He can't bear to hear them again.

_You did this to him, Dean. You broke his heart. You deserve to hear what it's done to him._

_Don't do that, Dean. Don't blame yourself. This is all Michael's fault._

_This is all my fault._


	18. Old Habits

1 Month Later

His hand is raised to knock on the door, but she opens it before his curled fist ever lands on the wood. Her jaw drops, her eyebrows furrow, and she pauses.

"Dean?"

A little boy's head pokes out around her side, "Mommy, who's this?"

* * *

><p>Dean sets his drink down on the table, leaning back uncomfortably in his chair. The boy—his name is Ben, apparently—has gone to bed.<p>

She's staring at him, and he knows that face.

She wants answers.

"Look, Lisa, I know I didn't leave you on the best of terms—"

"Yeah, Dean, abandoning me on Prom night isn't exactly the _best of terms._"

He sighs, dropping his chin onto his chest for a moment, "I'm _really _sorry about that. I was—I was stupid, and I freaked out and bailed. Just…I'm really sorry."

"It was years ago. God—five years, right? I feel so old."

"Too old."

"Yeah—the little one, he ages me. I'm gonna go gray by the time I'm thirty, at this rate."

"Ben? Yeah, that was unexpected. How old is he?"

She glances away, "Like, four."

"Four?"

"And a half."

Dean stops, setting the glass down. His hands shake as he stares at her, "Is he…is he _mine?_"

Lisa shakes her head, "No. Not yours."

He visibly droops with relief, sighing, "I…I don't really feel ready to be a father, so I guess that's for the best. Where—where is his father?"

She bites her lip and changes the subject, "How about you tell me what you're doing here, Dean? The last thing I heard about you was…was the whole thing with your dad, and then your brother running off? What happened between then and now that left you sitting here, at my table?"

"I, um. I fixed things between my brother and I, and I moved out to California for a while, and…um…something happened, and I kind of…I need a place to stay? I wasn't really sure where to go, and I guess…old habits, right? I always came running when I needed your help. It wasn't really fair to you, because I wasn't exactly a steady boyfriend, but you were still there when I needed you. I guess I just need…I need someone to be there for me. But I'll be there for you, too. This time. I promise."

Lisa swallows and blinks, turning away from him. They sit there, silently, for a moment.

"It's okay, Lis. You can say no. You can tell me to get the hell away from you and I will—just say the word and I'm gone. You'll never hear from me again."

It's quiet for another minute, and then Lisa shifts in her chair, facing him again.

"You know, Dean, I really loved you. Or, I thought I loved you," she sighs, "At this point, I honestly don't know if I can tell what love is. What love feels like. So many times—_so many times, _dammit—I've been in what I thought was love and had it blow up in my face. I…I don't want that to happen again.

"I can't love you, Dean. Not ever again. I don't think I can let myself love anyone again, not anyone but Ben. He's my whole world now, and if you do _one single thing _to hurt him or harm him or make his life in any way worse than it already is, you are _out. _And don't expect love from me. Not love—anything but that. I'll care for you and I'll care about you and I'll do everything I did before, if you need me to—I'll talk you out of your crazy ideas, I'll wake you up from your nightmares. But I can't love you."

Dean takes a shallow breath, "What…What are you saying?"

"You can stay. But only if you clean up and get a job and learn to control your temper. You have to be a role model for Ben—you have to let him look up to you. You can stay, but what I'm saying is, don't think it's going to be like before. So much has changed, Dean, and I don't want to fall in love with you again. I know this isn't permanent, and I know you're using me, but I'm using you too, I guess. I need a man in my life who I don't have any obligation to care about. Someone I don't expect to be perfect."

He nods, "Yes. Thank you—thank you so much. It's…it's better this way. Because things have changed on both sides of this equation, Lisa, and I don't think I could love you again. I don't think I can love anyone again."

_You haven't stopped loving **him.**_

_You'll never stop loving **him.**_

6 Months Later

Up at 7, at work by 8. Construction work—hard and sweaty, but better than nothing. Paycheck every Friday, at least, and that's what mattered.

Go home at 5, and then spend time with Ben. Sometimes playing catch in the backyard, sometimes playing with Ben's plastic army men—Dean had better sound effects for playing than Lisa did, so Ben preferred that anyways.

Dinner at 6:30, then an hour of the news. Dean would go to their room for a while and fiddle on his computer. Sometimes he'd lock himself inside and listen to voicemails on his phone, scroll through all pictures—Lisa knew better than to interrupt him on those days. She was always there with a beer and a silent, understanding smile when he finally opened the door.

She caught glimpses of pictures, faces she didn't recognize—sometimes a cute redheaded woman, sometimes a scruffy looking beanpole of a boy, but always, _always _a dark-haired, blue-eyed man who didn't smile with his lips but beamed with his eyes.

* * *

><p>"Bean!"<p>

Dean laughs and catches Ben as he flies pell-mell from the preschool doors and into his arms.

"Hey, kid. How was school?"

"It was _awesome._"

He'd picked up the word from Dean himself, who had too-often been accused of overusing it.

**_He _**_said you lacked imagination, and that you should try branching out with 'terrific' or 'phenomenal' sometime._

"Don't you have work today, Bean?"

"I got off early. Do you want to go get some ice cream?"

"YAY!"

Dean grins, "I'll take that as a yes."

He belts Ben into the back—he can't get used to the sight of the little plastic car seat in the Impala, even though it's been there for months.

His phone rings just as he slides into the front seat, and he does a double take when he glances at the screen. When he looks back, the expectation releases from his chest, draining out of him like air from a balloon.

_Charlie. It says Charlie**. **It's not…not **him.**_

He pauses for a moment to focus himself, and then picks it up.

"Hey, Charlie!"

"Wassup, bitch?"

"I love you to. I haven't heard from you in _forever. _Jesus, I thought you'd died or somethin'."

"You can always call me, you know. And this is the 21st century, dude. There's a thing called texting."

"You never text _me._"

"Oh, get off your high horse. You don't text me, either. I've been _busy._"

"I heard about you thinking about moving to Kansas, but I was pretty sure you wouldn't want that. What ended up happening with you two, anyways? Last I heard, you were Skyping pretty consistently and Jo was pissed that you lived so far away."

"We're both moving to the East Coast. I didn't really want to go to Kansas and she didn't really want to come to California, so we're both going for a change of scenery."

"I can't believe Ellen is actually letting her do that!"

"I know, right? She took some convincing. I told Jo she was going to have to fake her death—I was like, you could Sherlock this bitch, but it didn't go over so well. But we talked Ellen into it."

Dean laughs, not quite able to imagine that conversation. Ellen was a great woman, but she was a tad…_overprotective._

"So, what's up? I mean, it's great to hear from you, but you wouldn't be calling unless something had happened."

Charlie inhales sharply, "I, uh. Um. Have you, uh. I was wondering…"

"Spit it out, Charles."

"I hate that nickname, by the way."

"You're changing the subject."

"I was wondering if you'd heard from Cas."

She blows it out in a single breath, not stopping until every word is out, hanging in the static between them.

"Why…I…um."

Dean swallows, "_No. _I haven't heard from…from _him. _Why…why do you ask?"

Her voice is soft, scared. Worried. Sad.

"No reason. Just curious."

"Just curious?"

"Yeah. Sorry. So, I, uh. I have to go. Text me sometime, though? I'll text you. We'll text each other. Right. Bye."

She hung up before he had the chance to reply.

"Just curious _my ass,_" he muttered.

He stares at the contacts list on his phone—it's right there, right before Charlie.

**_Him._**

His thumb hovers over the name—a name he hasn't spoken in months. A name he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to say again.

A name he won't even allow himself to _think._

Not really. He doesn't think about it, and yet it's always there. In the background, it's his mantra. When he's working, the beat of the power tools follow the beat of his name.

Cas

Cas

Cas

When he's typing, his fingers hit the keys in time with the chant.

Cas

Cas

Cas

When he's sleeping, the crickets outside.

Cas

Cas

Cas

When he's silent, the beat of his heart.

Cas

Cas

Cas

Always, in the background of everything—he never thinks it, never says it. He lives it. He lives to the tune of that name, every moment, every minute, every single second.

Cas

Cas

Cas

Cas

Cas

Cas

He sucks in a deep breath and stares at his phone for one more minute before turning it off and dropping it in the passenger seat.

He turns around to look at Ben, who has been distracted by a flock of birds wheeling around outside. Forcing a smile, he reaches back and ruffles the little kid's hair.

"Ice cream, then?"

He can't help notice the strain in his voice, how close it is to cracking. He can't help but notice just how obvious it is, the weight of all those tears laying thick in his throat.

But he keeps smiling, and manages to laugh at Ben's enthusiastic nod.

_It's not **him. **It's **Cas.**_

_It will always be Cas._


	19. My Father's Son

1 Year Later

This had never been part of Dean's plan.

An entire _year _at Lisa's? No. It was supposed to be a short stay—a safe place to regroup, to plan out his next move.

6 months had been a surprise. But it was…it was recovery time.

Before going there, he'd been a wreck. He had been a _horrible _wreck. All he did was drink and rage and sob and curse Michael, scream at him at the top of his lungs. That had been his life, his entire life, and he was okay with that.

But one day, he woke up. He woke up and his head hurt so much he couldn't see straight, but that wasn't anything new—he was used to it.

He looked in the mirror and he looked and looked and wanted to throw up, he _did _throw up, not just because of the hangover but because he looked in the mirror and all he saw was his father.

His father, who had been his idol right up until he became Dean's enemy. His father, who had beaten him and hurt him and yelled, yelled until Dean wanted his ears to bleed just so he'd have some way to prove how much it hurt. His father, who he had loved and hated, but mostly hated.

He saw his father staring back at him, and he understood. He understood how his father had degenerated into the beast he had become.

It was so tempting, that path. The path his father had taken.

That was the easier path—the path to self-destruction. But self-destruction so often hurts those who care about you, and he couldn't do that. He couldn't become his father.

He was stronger than that.

So he had turned to Lisa, because anyone else would've asked him about Cas, would've pushed him further towards the breaking point. But Lis…she didn't know him. Not anymore. She didn't know that he had just broken up with—_broken the heart of_—his true love. He could say that, now. He could admit it.

True love.

Damn.

And Lisa had always recognized other people's pain, and she'd never been able to stop herself from helping them. It's one of the things that had drawn her to him way back in high school—she had recognized the pain inside of him and she had an urge to help him.

His life with Lisa…he didn't love her. But he cared about her, and he cared about Ben, and the thought that they relied on him, that Ben looked up to him…it had forced him to change.

But an entire year?

That had never been the plan.

He'd fallen so easily, and now he didn't know what he would do, if he did leave. He could go back to Bobby's, but who would be there? Jo was gone, off to the East Coast, and the rest of his high school buddies had scattered around the country. They were all itching to get out Kansas—Kansas was nowhere, Kansas was bland and infinite and nothing.

And they had all left him behind.

So where would he go? He couldn't go back to California—Berkeley was out of the question, obviously. Echoes of Cas would be everywhere, and possibly even Cas himself. And living near Stanford would seem like he was chasing after his kid brother, which was ridiculous.

So he stayed.

He stayed and it was all so beautiful.

Except not really.

Not that echo in the back of his head, not the headache in the front of it, not the way his fingernails tore at his flesh because it was itchy, itchy with too much skin that Cas hadn't touched in so long, itchy with tattoos that were printed in long-ago kisses rather than ink, itchy with that venomous buzz creep-crawling on the underside of his skin:

CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas

_God, _he was going insane.

He was better, better than before Lisa, at least. He'd been shoved off his self-destructive trajectory, but it was…it wasn't _right._

He didn't look insane. From any onlooker's perspective, he was a family guy. He smiled and laughed and ruffled Ben's hair and it looked so perfect, but they were a cookie-cutter family with shards of glass baked inside, and he felt so much closer to implosion.

All his crazy was bottled up and painted bright colors and people nodded when they looked at it from far away, but maybe they smelled something wrong and didn't get too close.

Dean felt insane, he felt like he was going insane from the inside out and sometimes he just wanted to see how blue he could make his face turn, how long he could hold his breath until he passed out.

But then there was Ben, and Lisa, and Sammy's voice on the other end of the line reporting another perfect score on another exam and he'd find himself smiling, and each time it didn't feel quite so forced.

He still couldn't bring himself to delete those voice mails, though.

* * *

><p>Lisa stands behind him, rests a hand on his shoulder. If circumstances were different, she would've wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed him on the cheek. She'd expected that, back when she had agreed to let him stay. But it had been 6 months before he stopped sleeping on the couch, and he still slept with his back facing towards her. He only kissed her on the top of the head, briefly and platonically, and she couldn't help but notice his aversion to physical contact.<p>

He knew, then. He knew what she didn't.

He knew what true love was like.

That was the only way she could fathom it. Dean Winchester, he was a womanizer. A lover.

He did not refuse to even kiss a woman on the lips after living in her house for over half a year. Usually, it hadn't even taken him a day.

"Whatcha workin' on?" she asks, setting a beer down on the desk next to him.

He minimizes the screen and glances at her, "Nothin' much."

"Oh, come on. Don't play that game with me. Every night, you're up here, writing. I know your secret, Dean Winchester—you're a _writer. _So what is it? What are you writing?"

He looks away, "_Nothing._"

"It's been a year, Dean. I deserve to know."

They both know she isn't just talking about what he's writing.

"I told you about _everything, _Dean. All the men and all…all the times I thought my heart had been broken, only to find out I'd never really loved them at all. Just…please? You can trust me."

He stares fixedly at his desktop wallpaper—a picture of his car. Of course.

"Dean, I just want to help you. _Please, _please just let me do that?"

Nothing.

Sighing, she sits heavily on the corner of the mattress, facing him, "Fine, then. Can you at least…can you at least tell me what it's like?"

"What's like?" he finally asks.

"Being…being in love. What's it like, for real?"

It's quiet again, the only sound the whirring of the laptop's fan.

Then Dean speaks. He starts quietly, whispering, before his words gain volume and momentum and force.

"It's like living your entire life in a world where everything is faded out and bleached, and then gradually everything fills in. Day by day, the colors get brighter, until the world is so bright you can hardly stand to look at it but you can't bear to look away.

"It's like someone taught you how to speak every single language except you don't really have to say anything at all, you know? It's like…it's…it's not telepathy, really. Not so much the invasion of each other's mind but the way your minds brush up against each other."

Dean stops, shakes his head, "Except it's…it's nothing like anything I just said at all, really. That's the romanticized version of it. That's what I want to say and that's what you want to hear, I know it is, but I don't know what to say. I don't, and I wish…I don't…I don't have these words, the words you need, the words I need. _God._ Um.

"It's like there's this person who is so close to you that all the sharp edges of their life, all those broken bones that have healed incorrectly and stick out at odd angles, all their broken pieces are poking so hard into you, and it hurts so much. It hurts more than anything you have ever known, but you're so wrapped up in them and all you want to do is move closer to them. You feel like you're hurting them, because you know all the sharpest pieces of your life are pressing into them, too, and you care so much that you want to pull away, because you think it would be better for them. But when you try to pull away, it hurts, it hurts _so much more _than being close to them, and you know it hurts just like for them, too. You love each other more than anything else, and you hurt each other so much but you know you're the only thing holding them together and vice versa…I…God. None of this makes any sense."

Lisa exhales, _hard, _and then breathes in again, "_Dean…_that. That was beautiful. I can't—"

"And one other thing. Being in love? It fucking sucks."

"I…I was waiting for that bit."

"Yeah."


	20. To Hear Your Voice Again

1 ½ Years Later

"Hello?"

"Dean?"

_NO._

* * *

><p>"<em>Why are you calling me?<em>"

"Why did you hang up on me? I…I'm sorry."

"Is it…is this really you?"

"Yes. This is Castiel."

* * *

><p>"Cas? Please stop calling me."<p>

"Why do you keep _answering? _I just…I thought you would've changed your number. I was going to call, you know, _try _and get in touch with you, and when you didn't answer, I could at least say that I attempted contacting you. You were never supposed to answer. I was never supposed to have this conversation."

"_What?_"

"I…I wasn't going to call you again, Dean. You told me not to, in your letter. I planned not to. But my therapist—"

"You've got a _therapist?_"

"Yes, Dean, I have a therapist. Anyways, she told me that I should try to contact you. That maybe being able to say goodbye to you, finally, would bring me _closure. _She doesn't understand—I've been saying goodbye to you every single day for the past 18 months. There is no closure."

Dean sucks in a breath, sucks in his tears, sucks in everything that he can. He leaves the room, going out into the backyard. Lisa looks up briefly, but she's got earbuds in and doesn't understand, doesn't know, just how big this is.

He sits outside on the edge of the patio, "Okay. Hold up. Go back to the bit about having a therapist—why? Are you…are you alright?"

He can hear Cas inhale on the other end of the line, "_No, _Dean. I'm not _alright. _There are so many reasons why I'm not _alright._"

"What…what's wrong with you?"

"_What's wrong with me? _Oh, I don't know. I haven't gotten over someone who broke up with me over a year ago, my brother is dead, I can't sleep, and—"

"Your brother is _dead?_"

"Yes, Dean. My brother is dead. I don't understand how this is relevant. I just—"

"Which brother?"

"Michael. Why do you—"

"Oh my _god, _Cas. Michael is _dead?_"

"Yes. Why are you—"

"Where are you? Cas, where _are you?_"

"I'm…I'm…Dean?"

"_Where the fuck are you, dammit?"_

Cas's voice shakes, "I'm in Lawrence. Dean, please—"

"Don't. Go. Anywhere."

* * *

><p>Dean rips his old duffel bag out of the closet, throwing clothes in. Lisa pulls out her earbuds, leaping to her feet.<p>

"Dean?"

He smiles, but it's kind of sad. Worried.

Scared.

"Where are you going?"

He sighs, "I have to leave. Just…just for a few days, Lis. I'll come back."

She tilts her head, studying him.

"No. You won't come back. You'll return, yes, but only to get the rest of your stuff."

"You don't know that, Lis. I'll come back, probably."

"No. I hope…I hope you don't. For _your _sake. If all goes well, you won't need this home anymore. You'll have your own."

A tear slips down her cheek, and he reaches out to catch it with his thumb. He brushes it away, holding her face in his hand. His thumb brushes against her eyebrow, and he opens his mouth to say something else.

She cuts him off, pulling away, "Dean. We always knew this was temporary. Just, thanks. For everything."

He gives her a sad smile, "Bye, Lisa."

"Bye, Dean."

He turns away, and she reaches out to grab his arm. He turns back, green eyes meeting hers, and she pulls him into a hug.

"Thank you again. And—make sure you do come back. Just for a little. Just to say goodbye to Ben."

"I will. He's…he's a great kid, Lisa."

"You've been such a help."

"You don't need my help. He's awesome, even without me."

She smiles at his use of awesome, and then pulls away.

"Good luck with…_her. _Whoever she is. The one you're stuck on."

Dean leans forward, pressing his lips to her forehead, "Not her, Lisa. _Him._"

* * *

><p>It's not a short drive, from Lisa's house back to Lawrence. Four hours.<p>

But Dean makes it in three and a half.

It's past midnight by the time he gets back, maybe one, maybe two. He's too tired to check, too breathless to care.

_Cas._

He couldn't believe it, at first. That Cas had come back to Lawrence.

Well. He couldn't believe any of it—not a single thing. Maybe…he kept thinking that maybe all that crazy bottled up inside him had burst out, that he'd imagined it, that he hadn't heard Cas's voice at the end of the line, that it was all in his head. But he kept hoping, believing, trying to understand…

But moving back to Lawrence—that, that gave him trouble. Cas had hated it there.

_Cas _had hated it. _Castiel _didn't care. And he'd gone back to that, to Castiel, when Dean had left. His voice on the phone—it had been his, but not _his. _Not Dean's Cas. It was cold and scared and flat and, damn, it scared him.

Cas had moved back to Lawrence. He'd dropped out of college, and that was Dean's fault.

_Not your fault. Michael's._

Michael—_Michael_. Who is dead. Who can't threaten them anymore.

He just wishes he'd been the one to put a bullet through his brain.

* * *

><p>The roads to the mansion where Cas had lived, back before they'd moved to California, are burned into his brain. There are so many memories attached to this place—sitting outside, waiting for Cas to get ready. Bringing him back from a date, waiting there with the Impala idling, wasting gas and steaming up the windows.<p>

So many memories.

Dean throws the car into park and leaps out, jogging towards the stairs. Except…except there are no stairs.

He stares at the newly-installed ramp, fear growing blossoming in his chest. Blooming into hysteria.

Dean runs up the ramp, yanking open the door. The hallway is dark, but a light is on in the dining room. He can't help but notice the way the furniture has been rearranged, allowing for more space.

He can't breathe.

"Cas?!" he whispers, "_Cas?!"_

"Dean?"

Dean moves through this space, which smells different and looks different but is the same, the same, the same…

The beat of his heart is faster. The pound of his headache is faster. The chant in his brain is faster.

CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas

CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas

CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas

CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas

_CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas_

* * *

><p>Cas can't stop crying. How can—why did—how—why—what—<p>

He can hear the blood running through his hears, sprinting through his veins, and it just sounds like it's screaming _Dean._

_DeanDeanDeanDeanDean_

The same thing it's been screaming for a year and a half now.

_Dean just look at me._

_Dean don't do that._

_Dean stop blaming yourself._

_Dean stop doing this to me._

_Dean stop looking so broken._

_I'm the broken one._

_Dean I love you._

_Dean don't you dare think I ever stopped loving you._

_Dean, look at me, dammit, it's just a wheelchair._


	21. Is This A 2nd Chance?

It takes so long for him to find his voice again. Too long.

"What," he hates the way it wavers, the way it comes so close to breaking, "What happened?"

"Car accident. Drunk driving. Paralyzed from the waist down. For…for the rest of my life, it sounds like."

He flinches at the words, at what they mean. He knew this, when he saw it. He knew what it would come down to.

This was all his fault.

_All _his fault.

Dammit. _Dammit._

How could he have done something like this? How could he have made something like this happen?

"How long?"

"It happened…It happened a while ago. About a year, actually. I'm…I'm used to it."

In a flash, Dean remembers. He remembers Charlie's phone call, out of the blue. The way she'd asked whether he'd heard from Cas—he'd assumed it was because of their break-up, that it was related to that. But it was because…

They knew.

The way they'd treated him—walking on eggshells, careful not to make any mention of Cas's name. Jo, Charlie, Sam…even _Bobby. _

He had thought it was because they believed it was still too soon. Not because…not because they were keeping some great secret about Cas.

How could they have done that? This secret…this was too big. Too much. How could they have kept something like…like _this?_

Cas presses his lips together, tears forming at the edges of his eyes.

"Oh, baby," Dean whispers, "You must hate me. _Hate me. _I…I…oh, God. Oh my God. I can't…" he stops, swallows, his voice shaky and tear-laden, "_Cas…_I ruined your _life._"

Cas wheels himself forward, closing the remaining distance between them. He's careful not to run over Dean's toes, getting as close as he can. He reaches up, pressing his hand against Dean's face.

"You're wrong, Dean. I don't hate you. I could never hate you. I tried—believe me, I tried. I tried cussing at you and screaming at you, but…I just…I couldn't hate you, Dean. I love you too much. I will always love you—break my heart, tear apart my soul, rip me up and scatter my pieces in the wind, and goddammit, I will still love you, Dean Winchester. Loving you…it's the one thing I'm sure of. It's the one thing I know will never change.

"It broke me, yes. You leaving like that…I didn't understand. I still don't understand. It hurt me in more ways than I know how to quantify, it hurt more than anything else I've ever endured, it burned and raged like you'd lit a fire in my gut and it was burning me to death from the inside out. I drank and raged, I dropped out of school…and when the drinking and the raging was done, I moved back here.

"It was like…it was like there were all these years with you, all these things that had changed, but I just erased all of that and went straight back to living the way I had before. And then…and then one night I looked at the calendar and realized that it was our anniversary. The first night I walked into a bar and sat in a seat that was already taken—I know that date by heart. It's September 19th. The first time we met.

"I was…I was stupid. I went to the Roadhouse—Ellen wasn't there that night. It was some people I didn't know. I drank until I couldn't see straight, and then I got in the car and I just…I just…"

He stops, gasping, sobbing, tears wet on his face, wet on Dean's shirtfront—Dean doesn't know when he'd dropped into a dining room chair, he didn't know when he'd pulled Cas into his arms, but they were there now, intertwined.

"…I just drove off," he takes a hiccupping breath, "I ran straight…straight into another car. They were…they were all okay. But…" his breathing is stuttered, frantic. His face is so soaked, so soaked with tears. Everything is so soaked in tears. "I could've _killed them._"

"Oh, God. _Baby. _Cas. I…I am so, so, _so _sorry. I didn't…didn't know. I just…I wanted…I love you so much, Cas. _So much._"

Cas pulls back, "You…_do?_"

"_Of course _I love you. I can't…I couldn't stand living away from you. It was so horrible. I'm so glad you called, so glad…so glad I could finally come _home._"

"This isn't your home, Dean."

"_You're _my home."

"Then why did you leave?"

Dean leans back, rubbing his hands against his face. It's three in the morning, and he's so drained.

But there's still so much to say.

"Michael called me. He called me the day before I left. He told me that…he told me that I had to leave you. That I had to break your heart. Or else…or else he would shoot Sammy."

Cas closes his eyes, leaning away from him. Dean doesn't realize that he's still crying until he hears the low keening noise erupt from his throat, bursting into the air and cutting him to the bone.

Dean pulls him close, adjusting the wheelchair so that he can fit his arms all the way around his body.

"I can't," he breathes, "I can't believe Michael would…I can't…_God, _Dean. I thought…I didn't…"

"Baby, please. It's all okay now. Everything…everything is okay now. I'm here. We're…we're here."

"Do you think…"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think that maybe we have a shot at that happy ending now?"


	22. Goodbye

1 ½ Years, 1 Week Later

"I'll be back this afternoon!" Dean calls. Cas nods absently, not glancing up from the book he's reading.

With a sigh, Dean grabs his keys and leaves. He climbs in the Impala and fires her up, listening to her purr. It's been a week since he's driven her—he hasn't really gone anywhere since he came back to Cas, nowhere except to take him to a doctor's appointment.

It was humiliating, driving a van. It was old and blue and horrible, but it did the job. There was space for the wheelchair, which didn't fit in the Impala even when it was folded up, and enough room to lift Cas in and out of it. The lady who'd been taking care of Cas had taught him all about it—how to use the wheelchair lift and beyond that, too. What medications Cas needed to take, which doctors he needed to see and when.

Dean ignores the humiliation of it—driving a van. It's not half as humiliating as having to be bathed by someone else and clothed by someone else must be, so he doesn't come close to feeling what Cas does. He _can't _come close to feeling what Cas does.

But still—it's nice being in the Impala again.

He thinks about it as he drives—the newness of all of this. The strangeness.

He hadn't expected to be able to fall back into the same life he and Cas used to have. That had been ruined by Michael, and not helped at all by either of them. He'd thought that it would take a while to get back to normal, but he'd thought there was still some _normal _to strive towards.

This thing, this strange and tragic and horrible thing, this took his idea of normal and shredded it. This little plot twist had reached deep into his heart and grabbed hold of his deepest desires—to live the life he and Cas had once dreamed of—and torn it free, and now he was left with…what, exactly?

He tells himself that it doesn't matter. That they'll create a new normal, a new future.

But it's not easy. None of this is easy, it isn't even the same kind of difficult as he'd thought it would be. He thought that Cas would be furious and sad and heartbroken, and that he'd have to strive to be forgiven.

But Cas…he isn't angry. He isn't heartbroken. He's still and careful and fragile, he's quiet and reserved, and…he's a stranger.

_No. Don't you do that, Dean Winchester. Don't you do that. He has been through **hell, **and you've only seen a week of his life, this hell of his, and you think it's too hard. Imagine what it must be like for **him. **You've just lost a dream you had—he's lost his future. No. You're going to make him a new future. You're going to be his future._

He presses his lips together, hard, and squeezes the steering wheel, and stares at the road in front of him.

_You won't dare give up on him, and you won't dare give up on that future._

_Dammit, Dean, don't you do that._

* * *

><p>He parks outside the house and sits in the car for a few minutes, steeling himself for this. Steeling himself for Ben.<p>

Then he pops open the door and walks up to the house. Before he can raise his hand to knock, Ben comes hurtling out, slamming into him. The little kid manages to push him back a few steps, and Dean laughs, ruffling up the boy's hair.

Dean scoops him up and carries him inside. Ben's legs lock around his midsection, and Dean supports him, holding him close.

Lisa meets him just inside the front door and grins, transferring Ben from his arms to hers. His chubby little toddler fingers reach back for Dean, catching the sleeve of his shirt. Dean carefully tugs them free, saying, "Go on, Ben. Let your mom hold you."

"Bean?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's me. Bet you thought you got rid of me, kid."

Ben stares at him, puzzled, and then struggles against Lisa's grip. She sets him down and he races back to Dean, wrapping himself around his legs.

Dean looks at him and then glances at Lisa helplessly. She shrugs, "The kid thinks he can hold you here better than I can. I told him you were just coming back to say goodbye, and, uh…yeah. That's why he's turned into a leech."

Dean sighs and drops into a crouch, pulling Ben into his lap. The kid's arms lock around his neck instantly, but he pulls them off. He holds Ben's hands, even as he struggles. The boy flails and fights, trying to pull his arms away, but Dean just holds on tight to those little hands of his. He watches, calmly, waiting until Ben calms down.

Finally, finally, he breaks. He stops flailing and lets out a cry, sobbing into Dean's shirt. He takes little hiccupping breaths, his baby sobs slowly breaking what's left of Dean's heart.

But he doesn't move. He wraps his arms around the little boy, balancing on his heels in a crouched position, waiting until he calms down.

When Ben lifts his face from Dean's shoulder, he sees that there are tears in the man's eyes.

"Hey, Ben. Hey, look at me, little man. Come on. I know you're angry, alright? I know you're mad because I'm leaving. And I'm really, _really _sorry about that. But I stayed around to help you and your mom, right? And now there's someone who needs my help more than you guys do. Okay? I love you, Ben. Really. _Look at me. _I _love _you. Don't let nobody tell you different."

"Bbbean?"

"Yes?"

"I wuv you too."

Dean stares at the ceiling and blinks away the tears. He twists his lips into a smile, but he knows it must look more like a grimace. _God, _but he hates this.

"Okay. Ben? I need to go get my stuff, alright? I need to go get my things from your mom's room."

Ben nodded, but didn't let go.

"I'm going to need you to get up."

Reluctantly, the boy releases him. Dean hears his knees crack as he stands, and he grunts at the pain.

_Damn, I must be getting old._

Lisa stares at him, and then she moves aside, clearing a path for him up the stairs. He can't tell if she just doesn't have anything to say to him or if she doesn't trust herself to speak.

He goes upstairs and gathers the rest of his clothes, pulling out a few boxes that he brought from California. He opens them, pulling out a few loose photographs—

_Cas with his arms wrapped around Dean, laughing._

_Cas sitting on the hood of the Impala, silhouetted against the sunset._

_Cas with one arm around Ellen, the other around Jo._

_Cas coming up sputtering after Dean pushed him into a pool at the base of a waterfall._

_Cas and Sam, heads bent together, playfully arguing over different political philosophies._

_Cas, grinning, leaning forward to try and snatch the camera from Dean's hands._

Dean takes a deep breath and drops them back into the box, folding the top closed and picking it up. He carries the stack of items downstairs, dumping them unceremoniously into the trunk of the Impala.

He goes back one last time, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. Quietly, he takes a picture of Lisa and Ben standing in the doorway of the house, watching him.

Lisa walks out to meet him, turning the phone towards her. She smiles at the picture, and then finally, finally she starts to talk.

"You know, Dean, when you first came back…I…I gave you a bunch of bullshit about how I didn't love you, how I couldn't…I think…I think my problem is that I can't _stop _loving you. Damn. I mean, I knew…I knew this day was coming. I actually thought it would happen sooner. But…I just…

"Forget it. It was…it was great having you. It was really, really…I…" she glances away, tries not to cry, "We love you. We're your family. If you need us…we won't…we won't forget you."

Dean touches her cheek gently, and for the first time since he's come back, the only time, he leans forward and kissing her on the lips. It's brief and platonic and sweet, and it tells her everything she needs to know.

She gives him a watery smile.

"Goodbye," she whispers.

"Goodbye."

Then he turns to Ben, dropping back to his knees. He hugs the boy one last time, squeezing him tightly.

"Goodbye, Ben."

"Goodbye…" he struggles for a moment, stutters, and then manages it, "_Dean._"

Dean sucks in a breath, and then smiles.

God, this wasn't fair. This was so hard.

He pulls away, stands up. Walks to the car. He doesn't look back at them until he's inside, until his seatbelt is buckled…

And he knows. He knows right then, when he glancing back at where they stand in the yard, Ben in Lisa's arms, waving at him…

He knows that he will never see them again.

So he waves and gives them one last smile, and tries to contain his tears until he can turn the corner onto the next street and pull over, where he can cry without them seeing.


	23. Amazing

1 Year, 2 Months Later

Cas stares at him through the window, laying his book down on the table.

He likes watching Dean work outside—he likes watching the way his shirt stretches over his back and shoulders, and the concentration on Dean's face as he takes the van apart, replacing something that had been causing a problem.

It makes him bitter, though, too. It reminds him of the way his legs hang useless over the edge of the wheelchair, the way they look so thin and childish.

He tries to remember what running is like, but it's distant. He knows it happened—chasing Dean around their apartment in California, going for jogs around the campus, walking from his house to the Roadhouse once a week, just to see Dean. He'd walked a lot since his license got taken a way, and now…

It's strange, being so weak. So helpless.

Sometimes he forgets that Dean's actually back. The dreams he has at night spill over through his nightmares and into the daylight, and everything gets tinged with fantasy. He spends his days wrapped up in other worlds, other adventures that he'll never have. He's stopped reading nonfiction—his own reality is too painful, and he doesn't need anyone else's. So he just holds tight to the great works of fiction he sends Dean to fetch from the library, he reads them over and over again and dreams about flying.

His physical therapist says that there's a slight chance that maybe he could walk again—maybe, maybe—but he has to _try _if he wants to get out of this wheelchair. He has to make a _choice._

They want him to choose between being able to walk and not, but he knows that's not the choice he'd have to make. It's the choice between easy and hard, pain and comfort.

And…

And part of him doesn't want to get better because he doesn't want to lose Dean again. Now, Dean looks at him with such careful, kind focus, but it isn't…it isn't love.

He has to face it, eventually. He's damaged. Dean doesn't _love _him. Dean just…Dean's his caretaker. It's some instinct left over from raising Sam. He doesn't…he can't love Cas, not anymore. Not after everything.

Dean is just helping him. If he gets better…

Dean can't leave again.

Dean watches Cas wheel out from the little room and up to the counter. He starts talking to the receptionist, who nods and starts typing.

He sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning towards the physical therapist.

She stares at him for a minute, at his questioning gaze, and then shakes her head and lets out a sharp breath.

"Dr. Kelly—"

"Please, call me April."

Dean nods, "Right. Of course. _April. _Is there anything you can tell me—"

"We've discussed this before, Mr. Winchester. Castiel has expressly asked me not to share any details about our physical therapy sessions with you. Whatever details you receive about his condition, you must get _from him._"

"He won't tell me _anything._"

"Then, Mr. Winchester," she says coolly, "It would be a fine idea to conclude that he doesn't want you to _know _anything."

"But _why? _I'm trying to help him, but he won't tell me anything."

"Have you tried asking?"

Dean buries his face in his hands, his fingers pushing his hair up into spikes.

"Not…not directly. I don't want him to clam up on me again. I ask him if he's okay, and he says he's fine. That's it—that's all he says."

"I would try asking him."

"Hey, Cas?"

Cas glances up at him, but he doesn't say anything.

"How…how'd it go today? With Apr—with Dr. Kelly."

"It went…fine."

"Yeah? What did she say about, you know…about…."

"My _legs? _It's okay, Dean. You can say it—it's not like you're sparing me any sort of hidden pain. I am fully aware that my legs are not, and never will be, functional."

"Never will be, huh? So…that's what Dr. Kelly said? There's no…no hope?"

Cas shifts, looking uncomfortable, "Um…not unless something changes, no."

"Something changes?"

_"I'm not getting better, okay? _Just stop. Stop it. You don't have to rub it in."

Dean stands up and walks to the armchair next to Cas, flopping down beside him. He reaches out, taking Cas's chin in his hand and tipping it so he can actually look at him.

"That isn't what you're angry about. Not really. Can you please…can you _please _just tell me the truth?"

Cas jerks away, "You want the truth? Okay. The truth is, _I am not getting better. _The truth is, if that's all you give a shit about, then you can _leave._ You can _get out._"

His hands shake at his sides, and Dean wants to pick up those hands and hold them tight against his chest. He wants to promise Cas the moon, he wants to fix this.

Damn.

"Cas, that isn't what this is abou—"

"_No? _Then what the fuck _is _this about? Dean—"

"Cas, no—"

"_Dean—_"

"Stop th—"

"Stop _what_? What do you _want? _I just—"

"Cas _please_—"

They stopped, regarding each other silently. They started speaking again, interrupting each other in sharp bursts, and then stopped again.

Dean speaks first, softly, "Cas, I just want to know what's happening. I want to be able to plan for the future. I want to know what you're hiding from me—not just about your physical therapy, but about everything. How you feel. What you're worried about. What you're scared of. I just want you to _talk to me _again."

Cas shakes his head, pushing his wheelchair back away from him, "I love you, Dean. I do. But I…I've been so selfish, Dean. You don't want to be here, but I've been holding you back. Holding you hostage. I think…I think you need to leave, Dean."

"Why? If it's…if this is for you, if you need me to leave you in order to move on…if, somehow, my presence here reminds you of some utopian past that you can't handle anymore…if I'm hurting you, then _yes, _I will leave. Just tell me that's the reason, and I'll go. But I'll hate it. Every minute of it. I love yo—"

"No you don't, Dean. That's the thing. You _don't _love me. You care about me, and that's different. You aren't my boyfriend anymore—you're like a nurse or doctor or caretaker. I'm just your patient, not the person you love. I don't want to hold you here. I…I pretended I was weaker than I was, because I thought your sympathy was enough. I thought your need to care for me could take place of your love for me, but it can't. It isn't the same. I thought having you here would be enough, but it isn't, and I can't keep you here anymore."

Dean recoils as though he's been stung, "Cas, no one is _keeping _me here. _I love you, _dammit! Do you think I want to be this? The man who washes you and helps you from bed to wheelchair, wheelchair to toilet? You know the answer to that? _Hell yes, _I want to be the man who takes care of you. And I also want to be the man who tickles you until you kiss me and comes up behind you to bite your ear and who loves you unconditionally. But you didn't _need _a boyfriend. You didn't _want _a boyfriend. You needed a _parent, _so that's what I made myself. A caretaker. You say the word, and _damn, _Cas, I'll be anything you want me to be. You _own _me."

Cas catches his breath, and then looks away, "I just want to be left alone with my books. And maybe a cat."

"It's this place, Cas. This house is poison. It's toxic. It is holding you down and holding you back. You look around and all you can see is your childhood, when you were helpless and needed taking care of, and there was no one to take care of you. _Wake up, _Cas. That isn't happening now. You _aren't _helpless, and when you _do _need help, I'll be right there. Okay? I'm not leaving—I will _never _leave, not unless it's the best thing for you."

"Dean…you'll just be my nurse for the rest of your _life. _Or the rest of mine, anyhow. Can you think of yourself, for once?"

"I'm thinking about myself. Maybe I'm even being a little selfish. Yes, life out there, without you? There would be more freedom. Less stress. But you know what? I don't give a _flying fuck _about any of that. I care about _you. _I love _you. _Wake up and smell the coffee, Cas. I'm here for you, and I want you to get better. And _no, _better doesn't require you with two working legs. _Better _means that you do more than mope around and pretend you're all alone when you aren't."

"What if…what if I want to mope around and be alone?"

"You're punishing yourself, and you don't deserve it. I _am _leaving, Cas. And I'm taking you with me. We need to get out of this depressing, stagnant life that we've fallen into. Something needs to change. We're getting out of this house, Cas. Out of this town."

"But—"

Dean reaches out, snatching Cas's hands from his lap and pulling them tight against his own chest.

"Feel that, Cas? That heartbeat? I can feel it, too. I can hear it. But my heart doesn't beat like everyone else's does. Their hearts go ba-_bump _ba-_bump, _but not mine. Mine goes _CasCasCasCasCas. _All the time, I can hear it."

Cas scoots the chair forward and leans his forehead against Dean's.

"Okay," he whispers.

"Okay?"

"Okay, I will leave. I will follow you anywhere, Dean Winchester, to the end of the earth and back. Even if I have to wheel myself all the way there. Even if I had to drag myself, I'd follow you."

Dean smiles, tipping his head so that their noses brush. Eskimo Kisses, his mom used to call that.

"But Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't want you to be a…caretaker. I don't want to be a patient anymore. I want…I…"

Cas suddenly pulls back and straightens, holding out a hand, his face serious.

"Dean Winchester, will you be my boyfriend?"

Dean grins, "Your wish is my command, Castiel Novak. Boyfriend it is."

They shake hands, which ends up with their fingers intertwined and Dean leaning in for a kiss.

The phone rings in the other room, and Dean jerks back at the noise, startled, and then stands to go answer it. Cas reaches up and grabs his shirt sleeve before he can go very far, and Dean turns back to him.

"One last thing, Dean."

"Yeah?"

"They said…they said that if I work hard enough, I might be able to walk again."

"_Cas. _That's…that's amazing."

And, like clouds parting after a month-long rain, Cas smiles. He smiles _for real._

"Yeah, Dean. Yeah it is."


	24. Home

**Author's Note: I know the end of this chapter seems like a fitting place to end this story-it does have an air of finality to it, doesn't it? So many loose ends are tied up. It's tempting, you know, to just leave it here. To have it end on the 24th chapter. But I'm not done yet, oh no. I have a few more loose ends to create. So while it might seem like the end, it isn't. No way. This thing is going to be novel length by the time I'm done with it, have no fear. **

2 Years Later

"Are you sure about this, Dean?"

"Cas, I wouldn't have bought the damn house if I wasn't sure about this. I would not have been driving for the past I-don't-know-how-many hours if I wasn't sure about this. I wouldn't have done any of this if I wasn't completely fucking sure about it."

Cas glances away, "You do have a tendency to rush into things without thinking them through, Dean. You're a bit reckless like that."

"I am not _reckless _about decisions that are _this big, _Cas. Moving to friggin' Oregon isn't something I'd do recklessly."

"So…we're really doing this, then? Purchasing a house, for both of us. Living there?"

"We already purchased it, babe. I already moved all of our stuff up here. Now is not a time for cold feet, Cas. You said you wanted this."

"I _do _want this. I promise you, I do. I'm just…I just worry that maybe you don't want this."

"Goddammit, Cas. I want this more than anything else in the fucking _world._"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Cas, I'm sure. Calm down—it's alright. Everything is okay. This is a fresh start, right? Close to California to drive down and visit Sammy but far enough away to be our own place. To be a new place. This is what you wanted, right?"

This is what they had wanted. Brookings, Oregon—six miles from the California border, next to the coast, amazing views from their little seaside house. It's almost too good to be true.

Dean prays that it isn't too good to be true.

He stares at Cas for another minute, watching as those blue eyes scan the little house, watching as his head tips slightly. The inspection lasts for another long moment before he turns back to Dean, his eyes smiling brighter than they had in a long time.

"This is _exactly _what I wanted."

Dean grins, reaching to pop open the door of the Impala.

"Except…"

He snaps back around, turning to look at Cas again. What was it? What was wrong with this place, this amazing, perfect place?

"I don't really think Oregon has a good climate for growing tomatoes, do you? I wanted to have a garden, with tomatoes."

Dean lets out a laugh, and it builds, swooping Cas up in the midst of it all, until they're both laughing so hard they can't breathe.

"Oh God, Cas," he says, out of breath, "I think…I think we'll figure out a way…to grow your damn tomatoes."

* * *

><p>Cas hasn't been here yet. He dislikes going on long car rides—he's been working so hard to get feeling back in his legs, working hard with some hope that one day they'd be able to work again. He hates being stuck in a car for so long because it makes his legs go numb again, when he's only just started to feel them.<p>

The exercises that Dr. Kelly makes him do have helped, but even now…it seems so hopeless. He regained feeling in his right thigh, his left calf—what the hell does that even mean? How is feeling someone poking your leg the same as walking on it?

They'd already found a good physical therapist in town—Cas had talked to her on the phone for a while, but Dean did most of the communicating. Dean had learned how to speak the doctors' language over the past months. Cas had gone to college to become a doctor, of sorts, but not this kind of doctor. Neurosurgeons are different from physical therapists in so many ways—and he hadn't gotten that far in his studies.

It had been such a blur, back then, after the accident. There'd been headlights and then pain, so much pain. A broken arm and light head trauma, and then…the legs. It all came down to the legs.

They hadn't been _crushed, _really. It was in the nerves or something. He didn't really understand it all, but he knew enough to understand that it wasn't a bone problem. It was a something else problem, and he hadn't known how to fix it.

But Dr. Kelly had.

It all came down to one image is what kept pushing him forward. An imagined picture that he held on to tightly, a picture he refused to let go of.

That picture kept him going. That picture will continue to keep him going. That picture is his dream, his perfect reality.

And that imagined future sure as _hell _doesn't contain a wheel chair.

* * *

><p>The little house wasn't exactly what you would call <em>beautiful. <em>It was weatherworn, the once yellow paint stripped down to a dirty white. There's ivy crawling up the edges of the place, and with no one in it, it looks a bit abandoned.

But Dean intends to fix that.

He'll buy paint—any color Cas wants, except maybe pink. He has to draw the line at pink.

In his imagination, they paint it white. Bright, bright white, so that it's blinding in the summer and gets lost in the snow during the winter. The shutters will be blue, an in-between sort of blue. But if Cas wants some other color, they'll paint it some other color. They'll plant trees and flowers—strong, hardy ones that'll last in the cold winters—out front, and have a path made of paving stones leading up to the house. The vast backyard will be tamed, and they'll have a garden. A garden with goddamn tomatoes, if that's what Cas wants. Even if Dean has to build an entire greenhouse just for those tomato plants, he's going to do it.

Whatever Cas wants. _Damn. _It scares him sometimes, just how far he'd go for that man. Anything. _Anything. _He'd die for him. Kill for him.

It's been a few days since they got here, and the look on Cas's face never gets old. The wonder. The amazement. The awe.

The happiness.

_Damn._

Everything is turning out just like he wants it to. Like…like maybe there's a future that doesn't include pain.

He closes his eyes, remembering.

_"That seat is taken."_

_Blue eyes, low lights. Laughter. The smell of sweating bodies and too much cologne._

_"Is it, now?"_

And Drunk Truth or Dare—that had turned out to be a good memory, actually, although it hadn't been so great at the time. Dates that they didn't call dates.

Moving to California. Those two weeks in the hospital.

Every time he looks at Cas, it's like…it's like all those moments were squished down into pixels and then arranged to color in this strange, brilliant man.

_God. It's been so long._

Six whole years. _Six years _since some weird dude in a trench coat sat down in an empty seat.

When he touched Cas's hands, it was like reading Braille. There was so much history between them now, written in their fingerprints. Tangled in their DNA.

Dean's eyes refocus, and he stares at the screen. The cursor blinks at him, taunting, and he tries to decide where to start. He's been writing…writing for so long now. The hobby had just kind of…appeared.

He's written so many fictional stories. _So many _of them. One got published on some online thing—that was cool. But that was fiction.

_It's time to start telling our story._

_But where do I start?_

Where so many stories start, he supposes.

_A guy walked into a bar…_


	25. Christmas in February

**Author's Note: I'm sorry I haven't updated recently, I've been super busy. This chapter is mostly fluff and cuteness and not a lot of plot. My goal is to get to around 50,000 words-10,000 more to go! It'll probably end up a bit longer, though. Anyways, I'm trying to update at least once a week. Hopefully I will have more free time this week, because they're calling for snow so I might have some time off from school to write. Please keep leaving reviews, guys, I ****_really _****appreciate them!**

2 Years, 1 Week Later

Cas wheels himself into the bedroom, knocking on the wall as he passes. Dean glances back at him from where he sits in front of the computer.

"Hey, babe."

Cas smiles, "Hello, Dean. What are you working on?"

Dean's eyes flash back to the computer screen, and he minimizes the screen, "Oh, you know. This and that."

Cas's eyes narrow—Dean is not the best liar. Dean isn't even a _good _liar.

"I was just coming to remind you that my first physical therapy session is in, um," he looks at his watch, "Fifteen minutes. And the therapy center is thirty minutes away from here."

Dean runs his hands through his hair, "Oh, shit. I'm really sorry, Cas. I was busy and not paying attention and I got distracted—I'm really—"

"It's fine. I don't…it's okay."

"We should leave now."

"I…we can call and reschedule, Dean. It's fine."

He tilts his head, puzzled, "Cas, I thought—"

"I still want to get better Dean. I promise. I just…Can we just stay home today, please?"

"Of course, darling. Whatever you want."

* * *

><p>Dean leans back, closing his eyes, smiling. Cas's weight was so familiar and comforting on his chest, pressing him into the mattress, holding him onto the earth, stopping him from floating away. He inhaled the scent of Cas's hair, the tint of cologne mixed with shampoo.<p>

Cas tucks his head back against Dean's shoulder, twining their fingers together. They stare out the window at the waves crashing against black rocks, the foam spraying up.

This new place, it tastes like salt. It smells like ocean. There is sea foam folded against sand dunes and stones crumbling in the face of the wind, and there's soil that can, in fact, grow tomatoes.

It doesn't really feel like home, no. But this new place, it feels like a place that could become home.

"I just want this to be _home,_" Cas whispers into his chest.

"It's home, Cas. Anywhere that we can be together is _home._"

* * *

><p>"Curtains?"<p>

"Do we need them?"

"_Yes, _Dean, we need curtains! What color?"

"I don't know, Cas. Paint color, curtain color, rugs and carpets and everything, it's all…_God. _I don't know!"

"I like the brown ones."

"Don't you think those might be a little dark?"

"I like the brown ones."

"Okay. Brown curtains it is."

* * *

><p>Cas pushes himself along behind Dean, scanning the paint samples. The cart is already full of new stuff—throw pillows and rugs and curtains and lampshades. All the things they need, or maybe <em>need <em>is the wrong word. All the things they _want_ to make it feel like home.

"So, you want to paint the living room walls terra cotta, right? And the bathroom…blue or cream? Or both. I mean, there are two bathrooms. Hmmm…blue for the bedroom? Or leave the walls white?"

"There are far too many choices in this situation, Dean. I do not enjoy this many choices at once."

"Come on, man. I have no clue what color to paint shit. Are you sure we can't leave the walls white? I think white is _fine, _you know, and—"

"White walls are far too _clinical, _Dean."

"Yeah, true. Um…I think the terra cotta is nice, but maybe one shade lighter? And I like the cream."

"Cream is good, yes. Okay."

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Dean breaks the stare, turning to laugh at the floor. He shakes his head and grabs the color sample, going to get a bucket of paint filled. Cas follows him, grabbing at his elbow to get his attention.

"What's so funny, Dean? No, really? _Please. _What is so _funny_?"

"You. This situation. _Damn. _I thought when I was this age, I'd have a motel room for a home, living a life of booze, burgers, and babes. But no—no. As painful as all this has been, Cas, this life? It's…it's everything I wanted. Everything I thought I didn't deserve. It's so funny, I mean…I'm _Dean Winchester. _Way back when, that name meant something, and it wasn't…it wasn't this. It wasn't a man hanging out with his boyfriend arguing about paint colors."

Cas smiles, "You are not who you thought you would be, Dean. But really, so few people are. So few people end up where they think they will."

"Indeed."

2 Years, 1 Month Later

Cas opens his eyes and yawns, staring at the ceiling. He glances at the clock—noon. He's been sleeping later and later now. He's gotten used to Dean's body heat disappearing in the morning when he gets up to go to work, and he no longer stirs every morning at 6:30.

They stay up late talking about their dreams, reading, playing card games or watching movies. Cas can see it wearing on Dean—circles under his eyes, a thin layer of stubble. Empty coffee cups littered across the house.

But whenever he suggests that they go to bed earlier, because Dean has to get up early, the other man just shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says, "Spending time with you is more important than going to work."

Today, though, something is different. The house is always so cold when Dean leaves, empty and silent and terrifying. Hollow.

But it is not hollow today.

It is full. The house is bubbling with warmth and feeling and a slight thrum of energy—it's Dean. It's Dean and happiness and love and nutmeg and Cas breathes it in, breathes it in, breathes it all in.

It's the difference between seeing something in grayscale versus full color. It's chalk on slate versus ink on parchment.

_Dean's home._

It isn't a weekend, though. It's Thursday.

Cas pushes himself up onto his elbows and then shoves himself into a sitting position. He reaches over the side of the bed and grabs the back of his wheelchair, pulling it closer so that he can slide into it. It's hard and uncomfortable and awkward, but he makes it. He settles himself into the chair and then shifts carefully. He rests there for a moment, his shoulders on fire from the strain. His upper body has gotten so much stronger since the accident, but looking at his legs…it disgusts him. All the muscle has been stripped away, leaving limp, useless, thin appendages that do _nothing._

Sometimes he wishes that he lost them completely in the crash. Sometimes he wishes he'd died in that crash.

But…

But then he thinks about what that would've done to Dean, and…

He can't bear to think about it.

He rolls into the living room, stopping halfway through the door.

Dean turns to face him, whistling a tune that Cas recognizes as a Christmas song.

"Why, good morning, my lovely angel! How are you?"

"I, uh. I'm fine, Dean…How…How are you?"

"I am _grand, _Mr. Novak. I am _stupendous._"

"Are you high?"

Dean breaks down laughing, and he shakes his head, "I'm not _high, _Cas. High on life, sure. It's _Christmas, _my friend."

"It certainly _looks _like Christmas. Where on earth did you find a Christmas tree in _February?_"

"It snowed last night, darling, and it looked like Christmas. I decided that it _was _Christmas. I got a tree—oh, don't give me that look. I stole it from the forest, and I trespassed. Tsk, tsk, what are you going to do, sue me? Nah. I found an old box of ornaments. Care to help me string popcorn? I'm making garlands."

"Dean…"

"What, Cas? We didn't celebrate Christmas last year—things were crazy and you were depressed and it wasn't really an option, you know? So why not celebrate Christmas now?"

Cas nods, "Okay. It's Christmas, two months late. Happy belated Christmas, Dean. Is that hot chocolate I smell?"

Dean grins and holds up a mug, "_Peppermint _hot chocolate."

* * *

><p>The presents are silly things that they wrap in newspaper—"Thank you, Dean, I really needed a pair of socks I already owned!" "Oh, Cas, an ice cream scoop, I love it!"<p>

They went outside briefly, because the snow looked so cool on the beach. Dean helped Cas get dressed, carefully bundling him up before pushing his wheelchair outside. It didn't roll easily on the sand, so Dean picked him up and carried him down to the shore.

He used to be too heavy for Dean to pick him up, but now…he'd lost so much weight. He was _so thin, _and sometimes it hurt to look at him. His ribs jutted so sharply from his frame, and his legs…neither of them liked looking at his legs.

They watched the ocean wash the snow away for a while, but it was cold with the spray of the ocean and the bite of the wind and the snow, still occasional drifting from the sky, and within moments they were shaking and cold and ready to go back inside.

They called up some of their friends—Kevin had moved up to Oregon, as did Alfie. Cas's old college friends hadn't seen him in a while, but since they'd moved up closer, they'd visited a few times. It was nice, having friends again. After Jo moved out to the East Coast and before Dean had come back, Cas had been alone.

But now he had _friends. _He had a boyfriend and a home and friends and they were making Christmas in February.

They invited Kevin and Alfie, who came and laughed and drank some wine like a civilized group of individuals. They sang Christmas carols with random lyrics and they called Sam and Jess and talked to them over speaker phone, and it felt…

It felt beautiful.

It felt like home.


	26. And Everything Smelled of Smoke

**Author's Note: I apologize in advance for the following chapters.**

2 Years, 3 Months Later

"Dean? _Goddammit, _Dean, _please. _Please answer your goddamn phone. Dean…Dean…"

* * *

><p>"<em>Please. <em>Oh, God. Oh my God. Dean, I need you, right now, _please._"

* * *

><p>"Help me."<p>

* * *

><p>"SAM? God, Sam, pick up. Those voicemails…<em>shit. <em>Pick up. _Please. _I'm sorry I didn't answ—"

"Dean!"

"Sammy? Oh God. Thank God you're okay. Those voicemails, I was so worried, I can't—"

"Dean, I need you. How fast…How…Goddamn. How fast can you get here?"

"Sammy, what's wrong? Please, I just—"

"It's Jess, Dean. She's…we're at the hospital. I need…please, just…can you come? As fast…as fast as you can?"

"_Yes. _I'm—I'm going to hang up now, okay? I'll be there as soon as I can. Take a deep breath. Whatever it is…Just…Shhhh. I'll be there as soon as I can, Sammy."

* * *

><p>Dean shakes Cas awake, smiling sadly at his sleepy face, "Why are you so cute, Cas? I don't want to leave. Damn. I have to go, okay? Sam needs me as soon as possible, and I don't want to drag you down to California at 5 AM. I'll call you later, okay?"<p>

Cas shifts, pushing himself into a sitting position.

"Wha—"

"Something happened to Jess. Sam was too broken up to tell me about it, but he needs me to be there. He really loves her, man. I need to be there for him."

"Okay."

"Love you. Like I said, I'll call you later."

He presses a brief kiss to Cas's forehead, and then he's gone.

* * *

><p>He shoves through the hospital doors, rushing to the receptionist.<p>

"I'm here for Jess, um…I think her last name is Moore? I'm not really sure. Sam…Sam Winchester should be here with her."

The woman nods, giving him directions.

He jogs to the elevator, punching buttons.

The waiting room is empty, all except for Sammy. Despite his height and muscular build, Sam takes up very little space—it's like he's collapsed into himself. He's falling apart inside, Dean can tell, and the implosion has made the great moose of a man no bigger than Cas. He's shrunk beneath this sadness, and all Dean wants to do is take it away from him.

He knows all too well that you can't take someone else's sadness away from them, no matter how much you want to.

Sam looks up at him with red eyes, managing to croak out a small, "Hey."

"Hi, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

"It was…it was so horrible, Dean."

"What happened?" Dean stops abruptly, and then shakes his head, "I'm sorry. You don't…you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Sam just shakes his head, continuing in his flat, dead voice, "It was just like you described with Mom. The fire, the screaming…_Dammit, _Dean. Just like you described. I don't know…I don't know how it happened. They said electrical fire, but I don't know what that even means. All I know is that the house was old and dry and now she's…they said she…I don't…_God._"

Dean falls to his knees, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. He remembers it, when it happened with his mother—the fire, the heat, everything Sam describes. He was so young.

He can smell it now—the fire. It burns the back of his throat, the scent of it. Sam reeks of ashes.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. _So sorry. _When it happened with Mom…don't blame yourself, man. I wasted too much of my life feeling guilty about it. This is _not _your fault."

"I…I came home and I could see the fire, and I ran inside, and…I couldn't…the neighbors had already called the fire department, and I was inside, and I couldn't get to her…_Dammit, _Dean."

"Are you okay? I mean, smoke inhalation is serious shit. Did they check you out?"

"Yeah, yeah. I…don't worry about me. But _Jess…_"

_I've done nothing with my entire life but worry about you, baby brother._

Dean wraps his arms around Sam, rocking him, and only then do the tears start falling. Only then does he truly fall apart.

Dean can't smell anything but smoke.


	27. Love You, Bye

**Author's Note: Sorry about all the feels...except not really. #sorrynotsorry **

**I'll be able to update more often for the next couple of days, no school because of snow!**

"Come on, man. You're tired, you're worn out, and you're wearing day-old clothes. You need—"

"What I _need, _Dean, is for Jess to _be okay!_"

Dean nods, laying a hand on his shoulder, "Yeah, I know. I know you do. You need her to be okay and I want her to be okay and we're all praying for her. Seriously. But you can't waste away here, Sammy!"

"Dean, I can't—"

"You think I don't know what you're going to say? 'I can't leave, something might change.' 'I need to be here if she wakes up.' 'I love her, and I need to be here for her.' Yeah, Sam. You need to be here for her. Which means you _can't _let yourself waste away while they're treating her. Okay? Look, man, I know you blame yourself. I wish you wouldn't—dammit, Sam, I really wish you wouldn't do that—but I can't change it. I can't change that right now, when you look in the mirror, you turn away disgusted. And I can't change that you want so badly to hate yourself, because you're so damn angry that this happened to her, and you have to blame something. You get angry at yourself, because if not then what? God? Fate? Nah. Us Winchester, we're predisposed to self-hatred.

"But that guilt? You can't let that turn into self-destruction. Don't do that to yourself. You want to waste away, I know you do, but don't do that. Because one day that beautiful girl is going to wake up and ask to see you—let me tell you, man, you're gonna be the first person she asks to see. She loves you. And if you let yourself go to hell, then what are they gonna tell her, huh? 'We're sorry, miss, but your boyfriend just let himself _waste away._' No. You have to be okay, for her."

Sam sucks in a deep breath, rubbing his face with his hands, "Dean, you don't understand what this is like. I can't just _be okay. _You don't ge—"

"Yeah. I know. I don't get it. I don't know what it's like to have my girlfriend in the ICU with second and third degree burns. I don't. I do not know what you're going through right now. But I know what it feels like to go through hell, and you are going through hell. But don't do this to yourself. It's been _two days _and I haven't seen you eat anything. You haven't slept."

Sam drops his head, shoving his fingers into his hair and digging his nails into his scalp. It takes Dean a moment to realize that he's crying.

He lowers his voice, sliding forward in his own chair, across from Sam's, "Sammy, please. Go back to your apartment, take a shower, change your clothes. _Eat something. _Get some rest."

Sam's voice shakes, "I haven't been to my apartment in…weeks."

"You were staying at her place?"

"She and her…her…she moved out of her old apartment and into that house with some friends, and they didn't mind me staying there, but…I just…I was coming home late from a study session with one of my teachers and everything…it was on fire. It was all on…_fire._"

He starts to shake again, letting out a low, keening, animal sound. He heaves a breath, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, his tears wetting his hands. The salt stung against the mild burns on his fingers, which just reminded him of how horrible Jess's burns were, and, and…

_It was all on fire._

Dean moves to the chair beside Sam's, wrapping an arm over his little brother's shoulders. He pulls Sammy's body into a sideways hug.

"I know," he whispers, "I know, Sammy, and I'm so sorry. I'm _so sorry. _But you need to take care of yourself, okay? Please. _Please._ Don't give up on yourself, man, not now. You can make it through this."

Sam nods, rubbing at his eyes. He stands, his movements jerky and stiff.

"Right. Right. I, um. Yeah. You're right. I'll go back to the apartment, yeah, and…"

That look on his face, so lost. Afraid. Ruined.

_Goddammit, Sammy. I just wanted to protect you._

_No one can protect you from this._

"Take care of yourself," he whispers.

"Call…Call me if anything changes. Please."

"Yeah. Just…Clean yourself up, alright?"

"Right. Right."

* * *

><p>"Hey, Cas."<p>

"Hello, Dean. How is Sam?"

"Not good. I finally convinced him to go back to his apartment and get some rest…the kid isn't looking too great, man. He's a wreck. And Jess…_God. _It sucks. It sucks so much, and I don't…I don't know how to talk about it. I didn't know her that well, you know? I mean, we hung out with them plenty, and I loved her. I really did. That kid…she was already like a sister to me, you know? In my mind, she was already part of my family. And now…"

"What are the doctors saying?"

"She's not looking great. Smoke inhalation, really bad burns—some of them are third degree burns, and the muscle is even burnt in some places. Her chances…it's not looking good at all, Cas. If she survives, she'll never be fully functional again."

"How long do they think she'll live?"

"At this point, they really don't know. If she does start to recover, the pain…it'll be unbearable. I think she's in an induced coma right now, or something…I really have no clue. I don't talk doctor, you know?"

"Are any of her other friends at the hospital?"

"Not yet. They were all down in Vegas celebrating someone's birthday or something, I dunno. College kid stuff. Sam was too torn up to call any of them until earlier today, when I asked. They're driving up right now."

"Family?"

"Her situation is a lot like ours. No real family to speak of."

"So…you're just waiting there?"

"Yeah. I'm going to stay here for a week or so, I think. We'll see what happens."

"Does Sam want me there?"

"I…I think he doesn't want anyone here right now. I mean, he asked for me to come, but he doesn't really want me here. He just wants _her. _I'm just here to stop him from killing himself."

"Okay. It's fine. I don't…If he wanted me there, of course, I'd go. But I dislike hospitals, as you know."

"Yeah, Cas. I know. So, how have you been?"

"Good. Bored, mostly, but that's usual. I've been hanging out, you know, not doing much. Kevin's been coming by with food, and to chat. I've been writing some poetry, and reading a lot. That's…that's about it."

"Poetry, huh? All love poems to me, I suppose."

"Of course, Dean. 'Roses are red, violets are blue, I love Dean, what about you?' Marvelous, I know. I think I show some natural talent."

Dean laughs, "Oh, yeah, dude, that's fantastic. Better than Shakespeare."

"But seriously, I do enjoy it. The words…I love how they fit together, you know?"

"I'll be the novelist, you be the poet. Eh?"

"Yeah."

"Hang on, I gotta go. Love you, bye."


	28. Friends of my Friends

**Author's Note: So I honestly have no clue what the treatment for severe burns is like, so I'm trying to be very general in my descriptions of it. Sorry if any of the details are wrong! Also, I realize that the characters I used as Jess/Sam's friends are all villains in the Supernatural canon, but they're just random supporting characters here. Other than this, most of the characters act the same way they do in the show, but don't expect any of them to act particularly villainous.**

Dean looks up as the group enters. Two of them are crying, while the other three are on the brink of tears. They cling together like dust particles forming a mote—desperate and scared, fearing being blown away from each other at any moment.

"Um, hi?" one of them says.

Dean gives a small smile and waves, "Hey. I'm Sammy's older brother—"

"Dean? We've heard so much about you."

"All good things, I hope."

"Mostly."

He shrugs and motions at the chairs, "Please, take a seat. Sam just went back to his apartment—he's been here for two days and needed a break. He should be back in a couple hours, though."

The girl who had been speaking to him nods, "It's good. He needs to take care of himself."

"I keep telling him that, but, _man,_" he shakes his head, sighing, "He's so hard on himself. God, that poor kid."

"Kid?" the girl laughs, "We aren't _children, _Dean. We're adults, too."

"Young whippersnappers."

She sits down beside him, rolling her eyes, "Right, you're a regular senior citizen."

"I don't think you're showing your elders enough respect," he replies.

It's easy, joking with her. Letting her flirt with him. It's natural.

But when she smiles flirtatiously, he just glances away.

"Come on, Ruby. Stop making the poor man uncomfortable."

"Shut it, Lilith. I think he's quite comfortable where he is."

The blonde and the brunette face off for a moment, but then Lilith flops into a chair, defeated.

"Whatever, Ruby. However you want to cope."

One of the guys in the group sits down next to Lilith, and another sits away from the rest of them entirely.

Ruby stays in her seat beside Dean, but stops leaning towards him. Instead, she lets her head fall back against the wall.

"I just…I just can't believe it. That she's really…that she's…" she pauses, pressing her lips together, "It's just hard to wrap my head around."

"We should've been in there, Lilith. If we hadn't been down in Vegas…we…we would've been in that house when it went down."

"Or," one of the guys says, "You could think that if Jess had just accepted our invitation and gone to Vegas, no one would've been in the house."

They sit in silence for a while—at some point on of the men, Alistair, dozes off. The girls bury themselves in magazines. The other guy, Crowley, just watches them uneasily.

Sam returns within two hours, but by the time he's there, only Ruby remains. She moved to a chair by the window and is curled up sideways in the chair, her feet tucked in between that chair and the one next to it.

"Hey, Rubes. Where are the others."

She looks up momentarily before glancing away, "They left maybe thirty minutes ago. I think. Maybe longer? I…How are you, Sam?"

"Dunno. Alive."

She nods tiredly before returning to staring at the wall.

Sam drops into the seat beside Dean, who is watching the TV on the wall.

"Hey, Sammy. You look a lot better. You _smell _a lot better."

Sam just shakes his head and hands Dean a burger.

* * *

><p>Sam jerks to his feet, causing Dean to snap awake. He walks to the desk at the front of the room, leaning over to talk to the nurse sitting there.<p>

"Hello. I was wondering if there was any way for me to get in to see Jessica Moore?"

The nurse flips through some papers and glances back up at him, "No. I'm sorry, sir, but she is still in critical condition and cannot receive any visitors."

Sam turns away burying his face in his hands. The other people in the waiting room, all there for other people, look at him sympathetically before looking away again.

Dean twitches anxiously—he's been in this hospital, with the 24-hour waiting rooms and uncomfortable chairs, for nearly three days. He can hear wheezing and coughing and beeping and nurse's voices. He can't help but think of Cas, laying in a hospital bed for months. How horrible must it have been—Cas hates hospitals. Which brings up the question of why he wanted to be a doctor, but Dean had long since dropped that line of questioning.

He's going insane, trapped in this waiting room with the circle of chairs and the coffee table and the teal and white floor tiles and one window, one TV, three magazines, and two generic flower paintings on the walls.

At first, there were things to deal with. People to talk to. Doctors came with updates, and there were insurance people to talk to and things about the fire that required dealing with and he had to be there to walk Sam through it all.

But now, Sam has retreated into himself and Ruby is staring at the wall and all the other people in the room are all trapped in their own private hells. And then, of course, there are the chirpy, friendly nurses who are just there for another day at work. Their world isn't on the brink of shattering. Their small family isn't dangerously close to being shrunk even further. They're just _working._

"Sammy, I have to get out of here," he mutters.

"I don't want to go anywhere, Dean. I need to be _here._"

Dean shakes his head, "No, Sammy, _I _need to get out of here. I'm getting claustrophobic. I cannot stand another moment in this damned waiting room, okay? I'm going to go insane."

"Okay."

"Can you give me directions to your apartment?"

Sam stares at him blankly, and then swallows hard. He looks away and frowns at the wall.

Ruby looks up, "I can take you to his apartment. He isn't feeling very talkative, obviously, and I'm going crazy in here, too."

Dean stands, tugging Sam's keys out of his hand, "Call me if something changes, Sammy."

"Okay," Sam whispers. His throat is raw, a recognizable sort of raw. The sort of raw that comes with screaming.

Dean closes his eyes, trying to push away the mental image of Sam throwing things around his apartment, screaming, _screaming. _Falling to his knees and sobbing.

_God, kid. I just want to help you._

_How the hell can I help you?_

"Come on, Ken."

Dean follows her to the elevator, "Excuse me?"

"Ken—like a Ken doll? You're like a fucking Abercrombie model."

"Wasn't Ken supposed to be some sort of flawless man-god? I can deal with that."

"A plastic, perfect, brainless man-god."

"Now you're insulting my intelligence. _Right. _You've known me for, what, three hours? Four? Don't presume to understand anything upon the subject of my _brainlessness._"

Ruby laughs, "Did it hurt, using so many big words, Ken?"

Before he can reply, she leans forward, speaking low, "You know, I could be Barbie."

He frowns down at her for a moment, and then shakes his head, "Nah, you're boobs aren't big enough. And Barbie is blonde, right?"

She deflates, sighing, "Okay, okay. I got it. You aren't interested in me, yeah. I can deal with that. I was just interested in a casual hook-up, you know? Big tragedy, girl in need of comfort, a big, strong older brother to offer it…"

"I'm taken, honey. I get that you're desperate, but really, this is taking it a bit far."

They walk through the lobby and into the parking garage. It doesn't take that long to find Baby—there aren't that many 67 Impalas just sitting around.

"_Nice wheels,_" Ruby breathes, seeming to momentarily forget their conversation.

"Yeah, she's a beauty. Hop in."

Dean settles behind the wheel, starting her and then sitting there for a second, just listening to her purr. Then he took off out of there, turning left when Ruby motions for him to.

"So, you're taken, huh?"

"Yep. So where am I going after this intersection?"

"Turn right here. So who's the lucky lady?"

"He isn't anyone you'd know."

"_He? _Well, that's a surprise. Oh, turn left."

"Yeah, _he._ And he's amazing."

"Yeah, yeah, _true love_, blah blah. I'm sure he's an angel. Park there—it's the brick building right there."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

They regard each other in silence for a moment, and then Ruby claps her hands, "Well! Nothing more awkward than flirting with a guy who turns out to be gay."

"Bi, and yeah. It wasn't all that fun on my end, either. So where are you going?"

"My apartment is in the same building—that's how Sam met Jess, didn't he tell you? I was having a party at my place and invited him. Honestly, _I _had my eye on him—your family had some kickass genetics—but he and Jess just clicked. It…it really sucks."

"Yeah it does. But I thought you lived in the house with Jess and Lilith?"

"I did, yeah. I mean, I've been living there for maybe a week or two? But I paid my rent through this month, so the apartment is technically still mine. All my stuff is gone, but whatever. It was all cheap shit anyways."

He looks at her for another moment before opening the door. She hops out of her side, and he lays a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Take care of yourself, Ruby."

"You too, Ken."


	29. Gone

**Author's Note: So this chapter hurt to write...I can't imagine what reading it will be like. I'm sorry in advance. This chapter was, perhaps, the saddest of them all. I'm really sorry.**

2 Years, 3 Months, 1 Week Later

"Hey, Cas. I know I said I'd be coming back tomorrow, but…it's not looking good. She isn't looking good. I'm really sorry—I want to see you, I do, really, but Sam needs me."

"It's okay, Dean. Do I need to come down?"

"Not yet, Cas. Sam appreciates your support but doesn't really want to see anyone but her, and they still won't let anyone in to see her."

"Okay. I'll just wait here then. Please keep me updated."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—what's the rush?"

"I…Kevin should be here in a few minutes, and I need to clean. Gotta go! Tell Sam that I love him and I hope Jess improves, and Dean?"

"Yes, babe?"

"I love you."

"Love you too!"

2 Years, 3 Months, 2 Weeks Later

"Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean."

"I can come home later today! Jess doesn't seem to be changing, and I want to—"

"_No!_"

"Well, alright then, Cas, tell me how you _really _feel. I'll stay here, then, if you don't want to see me so desperately."

"Shit, Dean. I didn't…I didn't mean it like that. I just think that Sam needs you more than I do right now. I'm okay, really. I know how to function on my own. But Sam…he's going to need you there, in case something does change."

"Fine. I just…I really, _really _miss you, babe."

"I miss you, too, Dean. I do. But I think—"

"Yeah. Sammy needs me. I just…I want to help him, but there's only so much I can do. He just…he just sits there and _stares. _At nothing. I tried to get him to go back to class, you know, so he'd have something to focus on…but, no. It's all I can do to get him to eat."

"One day he'll decide he needs to talk about her. And you should be there for him when that happens."

"Okay. _Okay. _I just…I love you, Cas."

"Love you too, darling."

"Bye."

"Goodbye, Dean."

2 Years, 4 Months Later

"Excuse me, Mr. Winchester? Can I have a word with you?"

Sam does nothing, staring at the lines on his hands. He rubs them, remembering how Jess smiled when he rubbed her palm. How she leaned into him.

_Damn, _but she was beautiful. He could spend hours just _looking _at her.

But it wasn't just physical, no. She was gorgeous, but she was _smart, _too. So smart. They would talk and she would never tell him to slow down, to say something again but in English. She matched him step for step, challenged him. She knew what he was going to say.

She knew _everything. _With a single glance she could tell what he was feeling, what he was thinking. She would order for him at restaurants, and maybe she didn't always get it right, but he would tell her that she got it perfectly right.

There were so many memories, stacked on top of each other, filling out a picture of her face, laughing, so full of life and love and everything he'd ever wanted.

He just wants to hear her voice again.

People are talking to him, urging him to do something, but he doesn't hear any of it. He doesn't hear anything until Dean's voice breaks through.

"Sam! Sammy, come on. The doctor needs to talk to you."

He stares at Dean blankly, forcing his eyes to focus.

_Dean. _

He blinks, snapping himself back to focus. Nodding, he stands, following the doctor out of the waiting room and into the hallway. Dean moves to sit back down, but Sam grabs his arm.

"Come with me?" he whispers. His voice is soft and small and pleading, desperate. His voice is that of a 5-year-old being pulled away from his mother in the kindergarten drop-off line on the first day of school.

Dean gives him a forced smile and follows them into the hallway.

Sam doesn't need to listen to the doctor, to his latex-gloved, hand-sanitized, Clorox-scented words. That clinical, falsely sympathetic dismissal—just another adult saying "You can leave now."

_"You can leave now."_

_"You can leave now."_

Those aren't the words spilling from the doctor's lips, but that is all Sam can hear. The principal at his school shaking his head and motioning him out of the office—you can leave now.

His father glaring at him, drunk, his voice harsh and sarcastic, his belt in one hand, preparing to beat Dean for something Sam did—you can leave now.

The doctor, the doctor, the doctor. Fluorescent lights.

_I don't need you. I don't need your words._

_I loved her._

_I loved her, dammit, why do you think you get to decide if she's alive?_

_I loved her, don't you know that I can't tell she's dead?_

_I **love **her, dammit, **dammit, **you can't make me stop loving her so stop telling me, stop telling me, stop telling me she's gone._

_She's not gone._

_She's not gone._

"She's gone?"

"Yes, son. I'm sorry."

_Take away your lies, dammit, you aren't sorry._

_You're not **sorry.**_

_Sorry, sorry, sorry._

_Sorry excuse for a human being._

_Goddammit._

**_Goddammit._**

"Gone."

Dean wraps his arms around his brother, drawing the man's body close. But it is not a man's body, no, not then. He is an infant in the midst of this sadness, drowning in it. It tastes salty, like tears, and he is drowning in this ocean and he is but a toddler, a toddler trying to swim, his undersized limbs flailing under _so. much. weight._

He is an infant, and then a toddler, but he can feel himself growing older. He can feel the sadness aging him, drawing his tiny limbs longer and longer until they're ready to snap. He can feel the ocean wrinkling his skin, squashing the spine it had just stretched apart, bending him and breaking him and making him crippled. He is an infant, and then a toddler, and then he is ancient. He is a star, ready to explode, ready to die. Ready to implode, to make a black hole, to suck everything deep inside his chest. There are fallen galaxies tucked between his ribs, comets stuck in his teeth, universes written along every inch of his crumbling body.

He is the only one that does not realize that he is wailing, screaming, _screaming. _Bent and broken, hanging on to a brother that cannot comprehend even half of what he is feeling, holding all those horrors inside his blackened skull.

He is the only one that does not realize he is screaming.


	30. We'll Talk In The Present Tense

**Author's Note: I'm really happy because I've been able to update a lot more than I normally would've been able to because it's been snowing a lot where I live, so I haven't had school all week. Writing this fanfiction is awesome, but I'm happy that I'm close to finish it. I originally thought it would be as short as the first one I wrote...I have been pleasantly surprised by my own writing.**

"Cas?"

"Oh, God, Dean. I am so sorry. I am _so sorry._"

"How can…who told you?"

"No one. I just…I could tell by the sound of your voice. She's gone, isn't she?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, _Sam._"

"He…he just stared when the doctor told us. For this long minute, he didn't do anything, he just stared and stared and stared. And then he fell into my arms and he started screaming. Screaming and crying and…he dragged me to the ground. He was too heavy, and I wasn't all too steady on my own feet, and he just dragged me to the ground. And we sat there, against the wall of the hallway, sobbing against each other, until a nurse came and told us we were disturbing her patients. I was…I really wanted to get angry. To call her a bitch. To tell her that she didn't understand what we were going through…

"But she knew what we were going through, and she was write. We were disturbing her patients, who didn't need a reminder of how wrecked their families would be when they…die. I can't use any more euphemisms. It was up to me to call and tell people, and I just… 'I'm so sorry your friend passed away.' 'It breaks my heart to tell you that she's…she's gone to a better place.'

"What bullshit. Like I know where she went, and if it's any better than here. I don't know. I don't…I don't know anything.

"I'm so worried about Sammy."

"I'm worried about _you. _Sammy…he's been destroyed. Crushed. But you're there for him, everyone is there for him, and it's leaving all the hard stuff to you. Have you started planning a funeral yet? Did she have a will? This is all so ridiculous. You shouldn't have to deal with this. Sam shouldn't have to deal with this."

"I'm okay. And yeah, we've started planning the funeral. It's…it's all really hard, Cas, but I'm okay. I have to be okay, right?"

"I…I suppose."

"I need to go—people to talk to. Brothers to comfort. But before I go, do I need to drive up and get you? For the funeral, I mean. I can drive up tonight, probably, and we can come back down here in the van tomorrow."

"Kevin knew her, Dean. He'll want to go to the funeral, too. I'll have him drive me down."

"Shit—yeah. All of them, too. I need to call Jo and Charlie. I texted them, telling them what was happening, but I haven't told them yet. There are _so many people, _and I hate…I hate being the one to deliver these tragedies."

"I'll call them. You stay safe, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll take care of myself. Tell Kevin the funeral is going to be on Monday, okay?"

"Okay."

"Bye."

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

2 Years, 4 Months, 3 Days

Sam leans heavily against Dean's shoulder, staring out the window.

"We need to leave in a few minutes, Sammy."

His voice is jagged, grating over Dean's ears, "I don't…I don't want to go."

"We have to go."

"I know. I don't…I don't want to."

"I'm so sorry, Sammy."

"Everyone…Everyone keeps saying that they're sorry," he pauses, swallowing down the tears, "They keep saying they're sorry to _me, _like, like, they're sorry I lost her. Sorry," he swallows again, "Sorry _for me. _Why aren't they sorry for _her? _She's the one…the one who's gone. I lost the woman I loved—_love. Love. _I lost the woman I love and I'm sorry, I'm sorry about that, but _this. _This sympathy. I don't want people to be sad that she is gone from me. I want them to…to be sad that she's gone _completely._"

"I am, Sam. I am so…I cared about her. I did. I loved her, and not just because you did. I loved her because she was beautiful, inside and out, and she was hilarious and smart and she was just a really amazing person, Sammy. I'm so horribly sorry that she's gone. But I'm also sorry that _you _lost _her. _Because when I try to think about what would happen if I lost Cas, if I knew he was gone…_damn. _It would ruin me. And I just want to be here, for when you finally decide you need me."

Sam stares at him for a long time, and then he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a box. Dean sees it and then looks away, shaking his head, pressing his eyes closed.

"I…"

"Sammy, oh God. Oh God."

"I was going to…I was…" he inhales, _hard, _"I was going to propose. That night. She…she knew. I told her, I mean, kind of…she had already said yes, but it wasn't fancy and it wasn't official, and…oh, God, Dean. I was driving over there…the only reason I wasn't in there was because I'd driven out to go pick up the…the ring…from my apartment. And I came back and…it was…

"I wanted to marry her."

Dean presses his lips together, staring at the ceiling—_God. _He can't start crying now, not before they've even left the apartment. He'll never even make it to the funeral at this point.

"I wish, so much, _so much, _that you could have had that perfect future, Sammy. That was…that was all I ever wanted for you. To grow old with the woman you loved, to have a child or five, to one day be rocking in a chair beside you, watching the grandchildren play in the yard, and to look at each other and know we made it."

They sit there, quiet, as Sam flips the box open and closed. Dean catches flashes of diamonds from the ring as it opens and closes, opens, closes…

"Would you rather have never met her, if this was the inevitable end?"

"No. _No. _I would never, ever, _ever, _choose a painless life over not having known her. Loving her…it was worth it, Dean. All the pain in the world, all that pain, anything. Anything is worth getting the chance to know her, to love her."

He pauses, then shakes his head, "No. You know what? I take that back. _I _would suffer any pain, any pain in the world, to have known her. That was worth it. But nothing is worth _her _pain. If I could've spared her by never meeting her…I would give up her love if it meant she could be okay. She is—was?—more important than I am, than my life is, than our love was. I would bear any pain for us, but if I could've spared her…I would've given anything to spare her.

Dean nods, "Then you loved her. If you would choose any possible painful ending over never having the story happen at all, then you truly loved her."

"_Love _her."

"Of course."

* * *

><p>Dean drives, fighting the urge to break the silence. He wants to turn on the radio, or talk, or <em>something. <em>But the suit-and-tie, civilized sadness…it's all so fake.

He isn't looking forward to it, either.

It's like funerals force you to pack away your grief and put a smiling face on it. They force you to pretend you didn't spend all night screaming your voice raw, to pretend you didn't throw things and shriek and cry so hard that you forgot how to breathe. You rub away the circles underneath your eyes and bow your head in prayer and pretend that a sadness so large can be contained in a still, silent mourning.

It makes the sadness into something beautiful, something you can sensationalize. It makes it sweet, something to smile pityingly at.

Sadness does not come dressed in a suit and tie. It does not come bearing flowers. It is not a quiet lake, lapping gently at the shore but deeper than one might expect.

It is nothing so human as that.

Sadness is unrecognizable screeching and raging pain and the feeling that you want to reach into your skin and rip out your own bones, just so you can break them again. It's wild and untamable and makes you break glass and fall to your knees in the shower and cry until you're coughing blood.

You cry and scream all night, and they expect you to show up with a beautiful and meaningless eulogy tucked under one arm and a pile of empty sympathies in the other.

Dean hates them.

He cannot imagine how Sam is feeling—for so many hours, he held Sam's shaking body. He rubbed his shoulders and whispered assurances and told him that this was hell, that his life would be hell, but maybe one day it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe one day he'll find he's just in Purgatory. Maybe one day he'll make it back to earth, to live with his sadness in peace.

_God._

So long, he had stood in front of his little brother, the rock shielding the cottage, letting the waves break against him. He had let life tear him down, just to protect a little boy that meant more to him that just about anything else.

But at some point, Sam had grown up. He'd grown up and now…now he had to own his sadness.

Dean hates it. He hates it so much, but this is what life does to you. It ruins you sometimes, and you come back. You have to come back.

Sammy has to come back.

Dean dreams of the day that his little brother's eyes will focus on him and he'll smile for real.

* * *

><p>He pulls into the church parking lot. They're early, of course. Sam wanted to be there to greet the others as they arrived.<p>

Sam goes inside to talk to the priest—priest, pastor, minister. Whatever. Dean never understood all those titles, anyways.

He waits on the front steps—why does he feel so nervous? It's been a month. Just a month.

He leaps up when the van pulls in. Kevin gets out first, going around to unload Cas and the wheelchair and everything.

Dean runs across the parking lot towards them, trying not to cry.

_It's only been a month._

But the thought of it all—what Sam is going through, the thought of what he would do if it was Cas…

He leans down, wrapping his arms tightly around his boyfriend.

Cas lifts slightly out of the wheelchair, holding onto Dean. They let go of each other long enough to nod for Kevin to head inside.

"God, Cas," he whispers, "I missed you so much."

"I missed you, too, Dean."

They kiss, briefly, and then Dean pulls away.

"Wow. You look rather amazing in a suit, Mr. Novak."

"I must say the same for you, Mr. Winchester."

They try to keep up the light-hearted banter, but it dies out. Dean pushes his wheelchair back towards the church, trying not to think about Cas's legs.

It's true—he does look amazing in a suit. But Dean can't help but notice how many sizes Cas has dropped. How thin his legs are—how thin all of him is.

Not as thin as last time they saw each other, though. He's making improvement.

They sit in the front row, where the family traditionally sits. The coffin is closed, a wreath of flowers trailing over top of it. Dean tries so hard not to think of Jess in there—a shell of her, though.

Cas has them help him from the wheelchair and onto the pew, so that it doesn't take up room in the aisle. It's awkward and hard and everyone is staring—Dean can feel Ruby's eyes on him, can practically hear her thoughts.

_Nice job, Ken. Not just a boyfriend but a cripple, too._

It's horrible and difficult and leaves Cas staring straight forward, looking as though he's been emptied out.

It's so nice seeing him, though.

_If only under different circumstances._

People continue to file in, until the minister—Dean has been informed that minister is probably the most correct term—begins the sermon.

It's all painful and stiff and quiet, the old man's words too inadequate to begin to grasp the weight of all this. People cry at his words, some of them, but the ones who knew Jess—who really knew her—they just sit there and take it. Each word is like shrapnel, embedding themselves in Dean's spine, cutting through to his core.

No words could ever be enough.

"And now, I would like to invite those who knew Jessica to come up and say a few words about her."

Ruby goes first, walking on trembling legs to stand behind the podium.

"First of all, it was Jess, not Jessica. It's always been Jess."

Dean closes his eyes, lacing his fingers with Cas's, and listens to her talk.

At some point she finishes, or maybe she gets too choked up to continue, but then it's the next person's turn. The next person…

"_Dean,_" Cas whispers, "It's you."

Dean stands, swallows, and walks up to the front of the room. He turns around, staring out over the sea of mourners—there aren't that many of them, really, but it seems like so many from up there.

"I…"

He takes a deep breath. Cas smiles at him, a loose, watery smile. Sam stares at the ground, his shoulders hunched.

"I did not know Jess as well as a lot of you did. I guess…I guess maybe you could say I didn't _know _her at all. I saw her several times, I talked to her…she was part of my family and I…

"I didn't know her the way a lot of you did. I don't have any stories to tell about how spectacular she was…but at the same time, I don't think I need to, do I? I mean…we all knew her. In some way, we'd seen her, and seeing her…that was all you really needed to know. With one look, you could tell that she was a good person. It was written in the laugh lines around her mouth, in the way she cared about everyone and everything…

"I don't have that many words to say, really, but I don't need to. We don't need words to represent how we felt—how we feel—about Jessica Moore. We know how we feel about Jess. We love her. How could you not? Words aren't enough. They can't explain her, and they can't explain death, and they can't explain us. Words can't do anything at all, really. Not in this situation.

"But we keep saying them and we keep writing them, because this thing—this horrible, awful thing? It doesn't make any sense at all. But we try to make sense out of the senseless things, and we tried to recreate some sense of normalcy with our constant, broken words.

"Keep saying your words, my friends. Keep trying to make sense of this senseless, awful thing. Anything less, and I fear we shall all go insane.

"Keep feeling your grief. This pain, it will remake you…do not let it define you."

He trips from the stage on unsteady legs, dropping back into his seat.

Next to him, Cas looks around desperately.

"What is it, Cas?"

"I'm…I'm next."

Dean stares at him, and then he stares at the set of shallow stairs that lead to the raised stage and podium at the front of the room. He stares at the wheelchair, sitting discarded in the opposite corner.

"Oh."

Cas pulls out his eulogy uncertainly, opening it. He turns in the pew, facing the crowd.

Without a microphone, he has to project to make himself heard.

"Um…Hello? I know a lot of you probably don't know who I am, but…my name is Castiel, and I am going to remain seated because I can't…I can't walk.

"I knew Jess in passing, but she was my family. Part of my family—you know, sometimes family has nothing to do with blood. There's the family you are born into and the family that you make, and I'm still making my family. I know Jess was still making hers.

"Jess and I…we had a lot in common, beyond the fact that we both fell in love with a Winchester. No one…no one really knows this, but Jess and I corresponded for a time, while I was in the hospital a couple years ago."

Dean's head jerks up, as does Sam's.

"She…she was a good confidante. She was smart and brilliant and…I'm going to read a passage from one of her emails now, if I can…if I can manage.

" '_I agree with you, Cas. I think…I think maybe love has very little to do with understanding someone. I think it has a lot to do with not understanding them at all, and wanting to figure them out. But you never really figure anyone out, do you? You just…you're just around them so much that you **know **them, whether you understand them or not. And you start to see little pieces of yourself inside of them, and you realize that you're becoming part of them. Part of this great, colossal being that you do not understand but which you will strive to know for the rest of eternity._

_" 'I also agree with your approximation of love. Dangerous and painful and…amazing. Love can't be contained in words or gestures, really, and probably not even in feeling. It startles me sometimes, how many people go through life without ever truly loving anyone. It's so hard, loving someone, and yet you can't stop. You don't want to stop._

_" 'The world is a beautiful place, Castiel, and too many people confuse the world for their experience of it. It's a beautiful place, beyond the pain of **here **and **now. **I know you're hurting, but I want you to take time to look beyond **your **world and **your **pain and look at everyone else's. Because it really is spectacular, and I don't want you to miss it.'_

"I think…I think Jess was one of the wisest people I've ever known," Cas takes a breath, silent tears rolling down his cheeks, "And I think she would want us to follow her advice. Your world looks like hell right now, but just…look beyond your world sometime and take a moment to look at the world we all share. Because it is gorgeous."

Sam can't speak when his turn to speak comes. He manages to get to the podium, but then he can't do anything beyond lower his forehead and sob.

Finally, he manages to force out, "I love her. What else…what else is there to say?"


	31. Finally Home Again

**Author's Note: This chapter is really short, I'm sorry. I will be updating again very very soon, so don't worry. **

Cas spends the night in Sam's apartment, as do Dean, Kevin, and (of course) Sam. It's tight, fitting them all. Sam lets Cas and Dean have his bedroom, and he sleeps on the couch. Kevin ends up curled up on the floor with a sheet—he promises that he doesn't mind, but they can see the look on his face when he finally manages to stand up in the morning.

Dean opens his eyes to Cas's hair tickling his face. He sits up, causing Cas to stir.

"Good morning, Dean."

"Good morning, Cas."

They're quiet, letting it all sink in.

"It's so horrible, Dean."

"Yes."

* * *

><p>Cas and Kevin leave after lunch.<p>

Dean wraps his arms around Cas's shoulders, kneeling in front of his chair.

"Goodbye, Cas. I'll see you next week, okay? Sammy just needs me to stay here with him for a little longer, you know? To help to get things figured out."

"I understand. I'll see you in a week, Dean."

"I love you desperately. You know that, right?"

"God, yes. I know."

They smile at each other for a moment, and then they pull away. Dean catches Sam watching them with tears in his eyes, and he has to look away.

"Bye for now."

"For now."

Kevin wheels Cas out—thank God Sam's apartment building has an elevator, albeit a rather slow one.

Dean turns to Sam, "I'm sorry if it hurts you. Cas and I."

"How could it hurt me? The fact that other people are still in love doesn't affect me. _I'm _still in love. Am I jealous? Yeah. I am. But I know you two have gone through hell, also, and…it doesn't bother me. It makes me hopeful, actually."

"When did you get to be so fucking wise? It's like just yesterday you were jumping off roofs thinking you could fly, and now…I hate that you had to grow up like this. Grief does that. It makes you real old, real quick."

"You grew up quickly, too, Dean. You've had your fair share of pain."

"Yes, I have. We both have. It's a thing about being human. Falling in love, breaking your heart…

"One day, Sammy, it'll hurt less. And I know you want to push that healing away. You don't want to get over her because you think it's the same thing as forgetting her, and it isn't. Just because it doesn't hurt all the time doesn't mean you don't love her anymore. I know you don't want to believe me now, but one day you'll understand what I mean when I tell you that feeling okay isn't a bad thing."

"I understand what you mean, Dean. I understand and I want to agree with you, but I…I can't."

"I know, Sammy. It's one of those things that comes with time."

"I wish time would hurry up."

"Don't we all, Sammy, don't we all."

* * *

><p><span> 2 Years, 4 Months, 1 Week<span>

"Bye, Sammy."

"Bye, Dean. Thank you. Thank you _so much, _for…everything. For coming as soon as I called her, and for staying, and waiting, and…and…"

"Yeah, Sam. I understand. You don't need to thank me. I will _always _be there for you."

"And Dean? I know I've said this before, but I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about Cas. About the accident and everything. He made me promise, he said you needed space and didn't want to hear about it. I'm really sorry—"

"It's fine. I understand. It's been, what, a year? I forgive you, Sam. I was never angry at you, actually. Just…"

"What?"

"Promise me that you'll be alright without me. You'll call if you need anything, if you're thinking about—"

"I'm not going to kill myself, Dean."

"_Promise me._"

"I promise that I will be okay without you. I will call you if I ever need anything, if I'm ever in trouble. I promise."

"Goodbye, Sam."

"Thank you again, Dean."

"Of course."

* * *

><p>The drive home is always too long. There are too many mile markers, too many signs saying how far away Brookings is—it's always too far. Any distance is too far.<p>

120 MILES TO BROOKINGS, OR

120 miles to Cas. 120 miles to home.

_Cas._

It's too much like it had always been before—Dean, alone, in the Impala. The road, the sky—clouds heavy with rain, hanging low in the sky, all that water dragging them down to earth.

Dean feels heavy, dragged down towards the earth. Like gravity has somehow malfunctioned and is sucking him in, pulling him towards something, somewhere, that he doesn't want to return to.

It's all so much—Jess, Sam…

He clenches his teeth, tightens his grip on the steering wheel, and presses down on the gas.

_Screw it. A ticket would be worth it._

He flips on the radio, smiling when he hears the song that's playing.

Rolling down the windows, he starts to sing along.

"Little drops of rain, whisper of the pain

Tears of loves lost in the days gone by

My love is strong, with you there is no wrong

Together we shall go until we die."

_Our song._

* * *

><p>Pulling up outside the house…it was everything Dean had dreamed it would be. It was more.<p>

* * *

><p>"Hey, Cas."<p>

"_Dean._"


	32. Yes

**Author's Note: 2 chapters to go, my friends. It's a bit sad, reaching the end. This fanfiction has gotten so much bigger of a reaction than I had thought it would, and it makes me really happy. Also, to all of you who have compare this to Twist and Shout, thank you! It's one of the biggest compliments out there, in my opinion.**

2 Years, 4 Months, 2 Weeks

Dean frowns, tapping his pencil against his upper lip. He readjusts himself in the chair, glancing up at Cas, who is sitting on the other side of the living room.

"Hey, Cas?"

He looks up, smiling, "Yeah?"

"What's a 4 letter word for 'Reddish-brown'?"

"You're doing the crossword?" Cas laughs.

"Yes, I am. Any ideas?"

Cas stares at him for a long moment, and then says, "I…I don't have an answer for you. But I…this might be the wrong time to ask this, but I can't wait any longer. I have a question for you."

Dean straightens, staring at him, "Um, yeah?"

With stiff, uncertain moments, Cas stands up from his wheelchair. He stumbles and limps across the living room, slowly but steadily, bracing himself against the wall. Dean's jaw drops, and he tries to speak but finds that he can't. Cas trips, dropping to kneel in front of him.

"Dean Winchester, will you marry me?"

* * *

><p><em>Will you marry me.<em>

_Will_

_You_

_Marry_

_Me._

_Dean Winchester, will you marry me?_

"Yes," he whispers.

"God, yes."

He takes Cas's face in his hands, pulling him close and kissing him, _hard._

"Yes," he says again, murmuring it against Cas's lips.

Cas drops his forehead against Dean's, and then leans away, embarrassed.

They sit there for a moment, and then Cas blurts, "Roan."

"What?"

"Roan. Um, a 4 letter word. That means reddish-brown."

* * *

><p>Dean stands after a while, when it becomes apparent that Cas isn't sitting there because he wants to, but because he can't stand back up. He goes and gets Cas's wheelchair, helping him up and into it.<p>

"So, how long?"

"How long what?"

"How long _what do you think? _How long have you been able to walk?"

"Not long. That's…that's why I didn't want you to come back, you know, a few weeks ago. I wanted to be able to walk by the time you got back."

"How…How did you do it?"

"Start walking? I don't…It's complicated, the physical, scientific part. But mostly it was a mental block. Parts of my legs are still numb, and I still can't wiggle all my toes and everything, but I can kind of walk. My legs are weak from disuse, though. I just…I wanted to be able to walk up the aisle, you know? I can't stay standing for very long, but…but maybe one day."

"_God, _Cas. I love you so much. This is…"

_This is amazing._

_This is everything I've ever dreamed of._

_This is my perfect future._

_This is the best day of my life._

_This is…_

Cas smiles, "I know."

* * *

><p>Dean leaves as soon as Cas falls asleep. It's something he does sometimes. Not often, although more often lately. There's more to think about, lately.<p>

Spring has sprung, but it's still brisk outside, especially at night, especially right by the sea. He zips up his coat, turning up the collar to fight off the wind. He leaves his shoes off—the sand will be cold, but he likes the way it feels on his feet.

_Dean Winchester, will you marry me?_

God.

He closes the door softly behind him, locking it. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he wanders down the path through the dunes and out onto the shore.

It's nice, at night. Empty. It's hard to see where the ocean starts, sometimes, but the clouds have left and now he can see the stars reflected in the waves. The water is black in the night, the crashing amplified by the darkness.

The ocean, a beast that cannot be fed. Seething, raging, foaming and biting and the shore. Sucking away boats and houses and sending a spray of salt into the air.

A monster, the ocean. A beautiful, horrible, terrifying monster. A mind of its own.

It seems more alive at night.

Dean wanders down the beach parallel to the water, letting the chilled sand bury his feet. Occasionally, the cold surf will rise up in a particularly ambitious wave and lap at his toes, tickling them. He doesn't mind the chill.

It's so beautiful, this world. It reminds him of what Cas said, or really what Jess said, at the funeral. About not letting sadness in your world affect your view of the outside world.

He doesn't know how to tell Sam. Marrying Cas, now…the timing isn't exactly amazing. But still…

This is the thing he thought he would never have. Marriage.

_God. _Maybe one day they'd have a kid. Adopted, obviously. But still…

Dean had always wanted a kid.

It reminds him of Ben…

He thinks Cas would be spectacular father.

Gay marriage was legalized a year ago in Oregon, thankfully. He knows their wedding would be anything but traditional…

But right now, he doesn't want to think about the details. He just wants to let the enormity of this, this thing, this spectacular thing…he wants to drown in this. He wants to drown in how amazing this is.

_Dean Winchester, will you marry me?_

_Yes._

"Yes," he whispers aloud.

"Yes."

He screams it then, he screams it at the sky and the sand and the ocean and the darkness.

Yes.

* * *

><p>Cas goes to as many physical therapy sessions as he can, as many are healthy. He's always tired, and sore, but he always has a smile on his face.<p>

Dean worries about him, and he says it's fine, but they can't stay angry at each other.

_Fiancé._

It sounds so much better than boyfriend. So much more official.

It sounds real.

They sit there in companionable silence, Cas working on bending his knees, Dean writing. Then Dean snaps his head up, smiling.

"I know what to do!"

"What?" Cas stares at him, startled.

"We're going to have to dance at the wedding, right? I promised I would teach you to dance."

He thinks about it, then. Cas, deciding to go to a party. The pack of people, feeling like he was in his element, Cas…not so much.

It was so long ago.

"Dean, my legs aren't strong enough to dance yet!"

He smiles, flipping on the radio and finding a good channel, with good music to dance to. He flips it to a slow song, turning to help Cas up.

"My legs will be strong enough for both of us."

Carefully, he pulls Cas into a standing position.

"Stand on top of my feet."

"Dean, no! I'll crush them."

"No you won't. Come on, stand on top of my feet."

Cas steps gingerly onto Dean's feet, which pulls them up to the same height. Dean positions Cas's hands around his waist, and they lean against each other. They sway to the song, not dancing really, just moving. Moving, moving…

Dean smiles, twisting to whisper in Cas's ear.

"That's great, babe. You're a natural."


	33. Perfect

**Author's Note: This is the last official 'chapter'. There will be one more, but it won't be part of the story, necessarily. So...here you go, everyone. The happy ending you wanted.**

3 Years Later

It isn't the way the movies show it, in a lot of ways. There's no veil to lift, no father to smile and nod at. There is no priest holding a bible, standing between them. There isn't a bouquet, a dress, or flower girls.

There's a man, a man with green eyes and shaking hands and a pressed suit. A man who can't believe how dry his throat is, how his voice cracks when he speaks.

There's a man, a man with blue eyes and weak legs and a pressed suit. A man who can't believe how watery his eyes are, how tears keep squeezing out of the corners.

There's a man, a man with long hair and tears in his eyes for other reasons, a man who is not a priest, a man who reads out their vows—vows they wrote themselves, not the traditional ones.

"Do you promise to love this man, even if the sun refuses to shine?"

They say it together, "I do."

"Do you promise walk the miles, hand-in-hand?"

They say it together, "I do."

"Do you promise that he is the only one, now and forever?"

They say it together, "I do."

"Do you promise to go with each other until you die?"

They say it together, "I do."

"Do you, Dean Winchester, take this man as your husband?"

"I do."

"Do you, Castiel Novak, take this man as your husband?"

"I do."

Sam smiles, "Thank you."

* * *

><p>"I still can't believe they modeled their vows after a Led Zeppelin song," Jo whispers.<p>

"So you don't think we should do that?" Charlie replies.

* * *

><p>Dean leans forward, pressing his lips to Cas's. They'd kissed—Lord, of course, they'd kissed. They'd kissed a million times before. They'd kissed, and kissed, and<p>

This was their first kiss all over again.

It lasted a long time, longer than was necessary, long enough that Cas could tell the weakness in his legs was no longer because he was nervous.

They break away from each other, and Dean smiles, and lets go of Cas, letting him sit back down into his wheelchair.

They can't take their eyes off each other. It's like—everything. The first time they'd ever seen each other—

_A man walked into a bar._

The first time they'd touched—

_Elbow brushed elbow, Dean reaching for his drink, Cas reaching to stop a penny from rolling off the counter. Their eyes met._

The first everything.

_This, _Dean thought. _This _was perfect. _This _was living.

_I never thought I'd end up here. Never—**never.**_

_I just wish everyone ended up here._

Cas smiles, and Dean smiles, and it is

Perfect.


	34. Author's Note

**Author's Note: Here it is. The end. This is like an epilogue...I understand if the title is a bit confusing. It's intentional.**

Author's Note

I would like to express that everything I wrote here was true. Cas and I did meet in a bar, and I did tell him that the seat was taken. It was ridiculous and heartbreaking and romantic, and sometimes it's hard to believe it happened to me.

Yes, I did make up a few of our conversations. You can't honestly expect me to remember every single thing we ever said to each other, can you?

I wrote this…I don't know. I started writing as a therapeutic thing, but it turned out I was good at it. I never expected any of this. I wrote this piece in particular because I had written so many fictional stories—action and adventure, Sci-Fi, you know. But they weren't the story I wanted to tell. That story, that was _my _story.

I never really expected to be a world-famous author, or on the top of the New York Bestsellers list. I didn't expect Cas to go back to college and become a college professor.

So much has happened since I wrote this—we adopted a little girl, who isn't so little anymore. She's a teenager, fiery and defiant and amazing. Charlie and Jo got married, and Sam found another woman that he loved. Her name is Amelia Richardson and…it's amazing, watching them together. He really loves her.

I never expected to publish this, either. It was…it was something I wrote because I wanted to. But Cas kept telling me that it was amazing, that it was perfect, that he wanted the world to know and understand me as more than "that gay author".

So here it is. My love story. Dean Winchester-Novak, known as just Dean Winchester in the writing world.

If I could write this again, I would do it differently. It's been so many years since I did write this, and at the time, the break-up and Michael's threat seemed like the biggest thing Cas and I had gone through together. That's why the formatting is in past tense in the beginning, counting down to that moment. I thought that was the time I should emphasize the most.

If I could write this again, the moment Cas and I said "I do" would be Now. It would be the great big thing to count down to.

But we weren't married yet when I started this piece, and I know I can never write it again. It's more honest this way. It's more…it says more about who we were.

Who we were and who we are…we've changed so much. But we're still the same people, in the end.

I guess what I really wanted to say with this wasn't "Here is my love story". No…

I want people to understand how love works. How strange it is, how hard, how beautiful. I want them to know that _yes, _it _is _possible to reach Happily Ever After. No matter how bad it seems, no matter how painful…you might not make it there. It might end in tragedy.

But don't give up on love because you're scared of the pain. Don't do that.

Because who knows? You might end up _here._

So, yes. You can call me names—trust me, I've heard them all. You can shit on my love, you can call it wrong an unnatural. You can say it doesn't count, because we're _gay._

But you won't change anything.

I would like to close with a few lines from the song Thank You by Led Zeppelin, lines that you know by heart after reading this. Lines that I have tattooed write above my heart, as cliché as it may be.

_Little drops of rain whisper of the pain, tears of loves lost in the days gone by.  
>My love is strong, with you there is no wrong,<br>together we shall go until we die._

Cas and I, we are forever. _Together we shall go until we die._

Keep looking for your Happily Ever After, my friends. Perhaps you will find it.

—Dean Winchester

—Dean Winchester-Novak


End file.
